Intermission
by Kaylin Tesla
Summary: Drabble 9- Beth Griffith always knew there was more to Mick Rawson than met the eye. The proof is in his journals.
1. Live Up To Your First Impression Part 1

Criminal Minds Suspect Behavior drabble series.

Intermission

Summary- Sam Cooper never abides by the expectations of others. That includes choosing the members of his newly authorized Red Cell team. Gina's heard the rumors about her soon to be boss, but she never expected this.

Rated Teen mostly for cursing, a bit of blood that will not be expounded on too severely, and minor violence. Pairings are not really Mick/Gina because this is pre-series but it leans more towards them by the end. No spoilers exactly, but this does tie into my own work so keep that in mind. This particular one-shot will be divided into two or three parts because it's long. It's not written from the standard first person perspective of Gina like I normally use simply because that wouldn't work. I tried. And failed. Several times. It's good practice because not every chapter I write in my main arc can be written from Gina's perspective. Seth McCall is an OC who has a later purpose in the main arc.

I don't own anything involving Criminal Minds Suspect Behavior. The only things I do own are my creations. I am simply burrowing everything else for my own entertainment and practice. No one else beta reads my stuff so any spelling and grammar mistakes are my own. Please don't verbally kill me for a typo.

Now, on to the story. Enjoy!

* * *

Chapter 1 Live Up To Your First Impression Part 1

Thursday, August 10, 2009.

First impressions in any relationship are the most crucial. It's the introductions, the subtle hints and nuances within the first few moments, that tell you who the person is and what to expect from them.

Gina LaSalle's first interactions with Sam Cooper, Jon 'Prophet' Simms, and Mick Rawson was not different. Well, it was _different_ in the aspect of other job interviews she had ever been to. Except in all honestly, it wasn't actually a _job interview_. It was more or less a test that she had no idea she was even taking.

Rumors of the infamous Sam Cooper had spread through the FBI rumor mill for years. Every recruit in the academy knew about him in some way. Granted, distinguishing legend from reality in a rumor was like determining black from gray when you're blind. Still, Gina knew what the world must have thought about him. Aside from the innuendos of being fired for his abundant disregard of proper authority and politics, fled to another country to conduct psychological experiments on willing soldiers, and finally disappearing before resurfacing in the FBI radar after almost four and a half years of silence, she believed Cooper was a good man. The good outweighed the bad and his impressive reputation of understanding the human mind in a manner that can't compare to even the most brilliant minds was inspiring.

When word of his return to the world of profiling started, Gina jumped at the opportunity to work with him. Director Fickler had already authorized a new Red Cell team in which Cooper would lead. It was only a matter of choosing the agents he would work with. Applications were sent to the director who then passed them to Cooper. Most agents wouldn't know if they were accepted until the day of their test. He would contact them with a date and time for a meeting after reviewing their files. So naturally, Gina did everything she could to stand out among her peers.

However, she never imagined that she was already being tested. Nor did she anticipate the relevance of her recent case to her future as a Red Cell agent.

The case itself was given to her team per Fickler's request. High profile cases were often given to Red Cell teams because they required a level of urgency, discretion, and skill most others didn't possess. So when the director placed her and the four others in charge of finding a man responsible for the deaths of four UK soldiers immigrated to the US, she knew it was drastic to her career in some unforeseen way. The others on the team were new and fairly skilled in one way or another. But they lacked, what Gina never voiced aloud for fear of starting an unwanted fight, common sense. As a profiler, every detail mattered in the assessment of the unsub. They had skipped over the seemingly useless data which resulted in their versions of the profile to be skewed. Which was what put Gina above the rest in a matter of days.

All of the victims were found hanging from their wrists on the Kutz Bridge railing over the Tidal Basin. They had been redressed after their deaths in their own uniform, still pressed but slightly small from the years of disuse. Even their weapons had been returned to their holsters. That particular location and methodology had a meaning behind it. As did the reason for why all four men had been gutted like a fish before they were hung. It was brutal and unnecessarily violent. For the first day Gina couldn't understand how or why the unsub chose two separate methods of murder. Using a hunting knife to subdue and kill spoke to a strong man who was able to gain access to the victims without their knowledge. Considering the victims were decorated soldiers, that wasn't an easy accomplishment. So he was smart and capable, knew his way around a weapon and how to conceal himself when needed. The hanging and redressing of the victims was more signature based. It was what set him apart from other monsters.

Ultimately, it was the one thing that led Gina to him.

Two days after being assigned the case, Gina used her profile to narrow the suspect pool. Much to the dismay of her teammates because Fickler had been watching the case closely and realized what she was doing. From a list of sixty suspects, she focused on two who fit the idea of a man in his forties, spent time in the military during his youth, suffered from some form of PTSD and a tragic loss, lived in the DC area, had access to the victims, and had no history of violence. Gina reasoned that he would be naturally careful, OCD even. Meaning he wouldn't have put himself in situations that led to trouble and therefore resulted in a record.

Raymond Lopez was the likely unsub based on how well his personality fit the criteria. Convincing her teammates was another matter entirely.

Seth McCall, an enthusiastic twenty nine year old agent working the same case and trying to conceal his obvious affection for Gina, was the only one who agreed to break protocol. He was encouraging in comparison to the others she had teamed with. Since she graduated from the academy in December of 2008 and found solace as his partner shortly after, he had shown her the ropes of the FBI. In some sense, he was a mentor. But he longed for more and Gina knew it. She pushed for the title of close friends because it was necessary. Because getting involved in a relationship with a partner wasn't only against the rules of the FBI, but her own morals as well.

And when the time came to move on, he didn't accept that excuse as she hoped he would.

Focusing on the case at hand, Gina studied the apartment building before her with a skeptical expression. Mid afternoon sunlight poured over the red brick and white mortar structure, bright enough to reflect upon shaded glass panes and few air-conditioning units mounted to open windows scattered among the side from top to bottom. People were still filing in and out, busying themselves with their daily routine of life with no regard to the agents positioned in the parking lot across the street. A small number of vehicles ranging from motorcycles to compacts littered the pavement, untouched for the time being.

She couldn't explain how or why she felt distrustful of the location. It was the indescribable knot in her stomach, the twitch she couldn't deny that always accompanied someone's eyes on her, that brought doubt to her plans. An intuition, perhaps, or just the rational portion of her subconscious coming to realization, she didn't know. It was irrelevant, really, because they had already taken the final step in the long run to find the unsub. Locating his living space was not difficult when she consulted the records. However, somehow she knew the chances of apprehending him in his third floor apartment were slim.

Seth had already vacated the black sedan from the driver seat, slamming the door behind him in fluid motion as he slid the keys into his pocket. He seemed more happy, more willing to flirt with her openly, and Gina found it rather amusing to play along. Like most other agents Gina worked with, he chose the classic attire stereotyped to most FBI agents. His dark gray suit was pristine, save for the contrasted sky blue button shirt, and pressed against a muscular frame. Black dress shoes, which Gina often complained about because they slowed him during the pursuit of a suspect, scuffed against the summer heated pavement impatiently. His observant and restless expression on clean shaven thin features and hazel eyes silently suggested she move. When she made no indication of obedience, he ran his hand through the flat mass of short brown-orange hair and heaved a sigh from deep inside his chest.

"You've got another one of your intuition feelings again, don't you?" He questioned, tone low over the dull noise of passing cars in the street and bystanders on the stone sidewalk.

She nodded in spite of herself and finally abandoned the passenger seat. The sun bore through her denim jacket and maroon blouse, heating her skin uncomfortably. Thankful for the slight breeze that flicked shoulder length blond hair from her face and caught the steady motion of her circular locket around her neck, she nudged the door with her jeans clad knee until it partially closed. Her grip remained on the warm metal beside the sealed window as she replied almost shyly, "Something doesn't feel right." Voicing her discomfort of someone else watching couldn't be an option. The last thing she wanted was to imply paranoia in her imaginative partner. "He shouldn't just be hiding out in his apartment."

"Maybe he isn't hiding. We'll never know until we check." He offered as his gaze swept over her thin frame.

Gina knew why he was staring but ignored it, choosing to roll her eyes and smirk instead. "You're getting less subtle with the days, Seth. I'm still not taking you on your offer to dinner at your place. You might as well put your eyes back in your head before they get stuck like that." Her smirk grew as he fiend a pout, somewhat childish in nature, and crossed the hood of the car to coax her away. "Profile wise, this shouldn't be easy. He's too smart to just live in a place like this with no securities. And he's too paranoid to leave himself open. Arresting him in his own apartment doesn't sound plausible."

Seth closed the passenger door with a snap once she was out of the way. Then straightened and grasped her by the shoulders tightly, smiling in reassurance. "It'll be fine. You were the one to convince me that the unsub is living under his own home, thinking no one else will be able to figure out who he is. Please tell me I didn't waste gas for nothing."

The younger women shook her head and shrugged off his hands, only to find them gently urging her towards the building. She resisted for a moment before realizing that it was futile and setting a steady pace for him to fall in line with beside her. "No, I'm sure he's here somewhere. I just think he isn't reckless on security. After what happened to his wife in Glasgow all those years ago, when she was murdered by those ex-SAS soldiers who got drunk and decided to rob a few homes, you would think he would have some form of surveillance to know if he was compromised." She paused as they crossed the street and headed for the entrance to the building, waiting for his response.

"I think you're giving him too much credit." Seth replied as they reached the painted glass double doorway entrance. He opened one door and stepped aside, waving his hand for her to enter first out of courtesy. "You should never overestimate the unsubs. That's just as bad as underestimating them."

Gina held the retort by biting her lip. She wasn't overestimating, she was just relying on what her instincts told her. And at that moment, they were screaming that the unsub knew they were coming.

* * *

Over the years Gina has learned the importance of following intuition. In the academy, it kept her scores above others and made her a formidable opponent to those who wanted to prove that they were better. During cases, it crafted profiles that were true to the unsub more often than not and kept her safe during a pursuit.

But sometimes having the horrid gut-wrenching feeling of impending trouble, and then acting upon it with sensible reason to those around her worsened the trouble itself.

Lopez wasn't in his apartment. According to the security camera records they were given access to via a flash of their FBI credentials, Lopez left the building at nine earlier that morning and hadn't returned yet. His apartment was empty save for the usual necessities, implying that he lived a very sparse lifestyle. A few hand guns were found stashed in a dresser drawer. Knives in the kitchen were accounted for but a shelf beside the two-burner stove top held the impression of several sheathed weapons. They hadn't found the knives in the apartment during their search but that didn't mean he hadn't hidden them somewhere. Lastly, his prescribed sleep and anti-anxiety medications were still full. It appeared that he hadn't been taking the daily recommended dosages for the same period of time as the murders, which undoubtedly resulted in severe paranoia and other life altering symptoms. And with only circumstantial evidence and a hunch, getting a warrant to properly tear the temporary home apart would be impossible.

It was just as Gina suspected, what she had tried to explain to Seth. Security was a must for Lopez. The laptop computer perched on his bed was restricted with a password, but Gina was fairly certain it was connected to the building's wireless security camera network. Which explained why he ran when he recognized two FBI agents inside his apartment building. It was still warm from the blanket that muffled the fan output, and the lack of a multicolor default screensaver suggested that they were only minutes behind him.

The question, at that point, became a matter of how. How did he leave his apartment without the cameras scattered through the halls seeing him?

A blind spot. That was the only logical option she could fathom. The only thing that made sense because Lopez couldn't have disappeared.

Gina paced in the small living room for several minutes, back and forth while her blue latex fingers abused the necklace around her neck, allowing herself to catalog the evidence around her. There had to be something he left behind that would validate him as the unsub. That would show her where he went in his mad dash for safety. The fact that there wasn't didn't make sense. Unsubs always leave evidence in their haste.

Her instincts told her that it was staged. That they weren't the first to enter the apartment. If that were true, then the landlord lied to them.

The man, Harold Simms, did seem vaguely familiar but she couldn't place from where. Mid thirties, dressed in ragged jeans and a brown tee that appeared to be stained with dirt in unison with his sneakers, a few inches taller than herself, slightly balding brown hair trimmed to just inches from his scalp, and an aged expression trying its hardest to mask heartache and tragedy. She knew she had seen him somewhere because she hardly ever forgot a memorable face. Maybe it was just in passing though.

Regardless of what she thought, Seth had other ideas. He ordered the man to keep his eyes on the security cameras and alert them if Lopez was seen. It was somewhat pointless because if Lopez escaped the apartment using the blind spots in the halls, then it was a safe assumption that he used the same method to leave the building. But Seth wanted to cover all bases and Gina wasn't about to object to that.

"Okay, I admit it. You were right. Something's weird about this place." Seth exclaimed in defeat as he entered the room from the bedroom. His attempts at hacking into the computer must have been futile if he had just given up after only a few minutes. He wore a tight frown that did nothing to mask confusion and contemplation. Gina knew that expression well because it often led to a lack of his flirtatious and humorous quips. "I think now would be a great time to call in the others."

Gina stopped her pacing abruptly and turned to him with a nod in agreement. "Let's try one more thing. If this doesn't pan out, then you can call in backup to help search the streets and the building." She responded as she reached the door in three strides. Pulling it open, she waited impatiently for Seth to read between her words.

"Conditions? Really?" Seth replied with a raise of his eyebrow in question as he joined her. Once they were out of the apartment they scanned the row of closed doors along the elegantly red wallpaper hall, settling on the black recorder position at the end beside the classic metal lift. The position appeared correct at first glance. But one of two things could have caused the blind spot. The machine could have been damaged or repositioned. She was betting on the latter.

A smirk tugged at Seth's lips as he continued, "Moments like these should be recorded. Just to prove that you're capable…" He stopped suddenly and slapped himself on the cheek lightly, childishly, causing Gina to stare at him in amusement. "Never mind. That didn't come out like I intended. So what's this new plan of yours?"

Gina laughed and shook her head. She slid her hand into his suit jacket pocket, causing him to jump at the intrusion, and found his cell phone. "Call the landlord back and tell him to focus on the camera for this floor. We need him to walk us through so we can retrace Lopez's steps." She stated as she placed the device in an open hand.

"And you say I'm a flirt." He muttered, dialing the number.

"You are. But I'm not going to fall for it like almost every other woman you meet."

Placing his phone against his ear in wait, he quipped, "Not every woman I've met ends up at my place after dinner. That's just a myth."

Gina gave him a questioning glare, smirking widely. "My father has a saying involving believing your own BS. You want to know what it is?"

"I'm sure you're going to tell me even if I say no."

Their banter ended at the sudden click of Seths' phone being placed on speaker for both to hear, followed by Simms' quick reply of 'what?'. Moments before it sounded as though he were arguing with someone. Gina managed to hear him mention the name 'Mick'.

Seth offered one last smile in amusement before he requested the older man to watch them and point out the camera blind spot. "Against the same wall as his apartment. Someone moved the camera. I didn't realize it until now." Simms answered quickly. "It runs until the end of the hall. Around the corner is a window that opens up to the fire escape. I don't have visual on that either."

Gina furrowed her brow at his words. The choice of words, the stern and informative tone that masked new anxiety, it reminded her of Seth. More accurately, it reminded her of a trained FBI agent that was trying too hard. Someone who knew what to look for and how to deliver the information, but tried to disguise it.

At that moment the pieces seemed to click into place. The case, clearly meant for a Red Cell team, Fickler's interest, the unsub himself, and the strange circumstances in the apartment. All of which added to the conclusion that it was staged. They were being fooled. Someone was watching them and it wasn't the unsub.

"Thank you for your help Mister Simms." Gina said with forced kindness. She ended the conversation by snatching the phone from Seth before he or Simms could respond. Then twisted the phone between her fingers as she gnawed on her lip, internally debating how to voice the new revelation to Seth.

Seth stared at her in confusion, blinking in disbelief that she had just contradicted herself. "Gina, what the hell was that? You just said that we needed him to guide us through the cameras…"

"We're being fooled. This case, the landlord and the unsub, it's all some kind of ruse. Like a test or something." She answered, replacing his phone in his top jacket pocket.

His confusion deepened as he studied her expression, posture stiff as he started to put the clues together himself. Realization dawned on him a few moments later and he cocked his head to the side and muttered an 'oh' in surprise. "You signed up for Cooper's new Red Cell team too, didn't you? Somehow you think this is our test? If we solve this, then one or both of us could be accepted."

Gina grimaced at thee tone in his voice. Neither her or Seth were competitive. Well, she did refuse to tell her other teammates where she and Seth were going. But towards each other, competition was irrelevant. So why did he sound startled and displeased by the suggestion?

"It makes sense…" She attempted to explain.

"Yeah it does. But that just makes things worse, doesn't it? If we screw up, we could be humiliated by one of the most notable profilers the FBI has. There's no pressure, though, right?" He interrupted, heaving a sigh and rocking on his heels as his hands fumbled in his jacket pockets.

Gina released a deflating breath in agreement. She hadn't fully grasped what being 'tested' meant until Seth's worried and nervous explanation summed it up. Now that she realized the consequences of failure would probably be the end of her short lived career, she couldn't afford to lose. Because she liked being an FBI agent, gaining respect from others because she was often more savvy in profiling, and she enjoyed Seth's company. None of which she wanted to leave behind.

So she bit back a curse and hooked her arm around his own, dragging him towards the end of the hall where the fire escape was located. "You know, that doesn't make me feel better." She muttered with another sigh.

Seth nodded and set the pace of their walk easily. "Me neither. I'll vouch for you with the director though. As much as I want the job too, I think you're more likely to get picked. But I wouldn't mind working with you."

The words brought a thankful smile to her face and she squeezed his arm gently in appreciation. But it didn't last when the unmistakable click of a gun safety echoed the hall behind them. The earsplitting crack of a bullet leaving a chamber of a gun brought instinct that wasn't fast enough.

When the man she adored and playfully flirted with sagged in her grip, threatening to pull her down to the carpet, instinct was all she could rely on. Because the panic engulfing her was not going to stop Seth from bleeding onto the floor from the ragged hole in the back of his lower right shoulder. And it wasn't going to stop Lopez from firing his gun again. Only this time, she knew he wouldn't aim to simply disarm.

* * *

Gina had seen the photos in Lopez' records. She'd put the profile together without much, if any, assistance. Memorized the traumas listed and the notes of a once secure and joyous life before tragedies and war. She knew why he was afraid and why he attacked them with a gun. Knew that paranoia was contorting his image of life. That his severe PTSD was worse because his medication found in the bathroom cupboard of his apartment was still full, meaning he had skipped too many dosages to keep him rational. And she knew that no amount of peaceful conversation would ease his heavy trigger finger.

"What the hell were you doing in my apartment?" The older Hispanic man seethed. His iron grip on the black polished gun shook in rage, bouncing between Gina and Seth dangerously. Worn boots shifted on the floor nervously, knee torn jeans and wrinkled tan button up against a large frame giving him a very intimidating look. A single hand wound its way into messy black hair peppered with gray, pulling as his tight features occasionally twitched. No sooner did the question leave his mouth, harsh and demanding, did he take another severely limping step forward and positioned his aim at Gina. "You're one of them, aren't you? One the bastards that's been spying on me?"

Remaining outwardly calm in situations like this was critical to survival. The neighbors probably heard the gunshot and called the local police, but were too afraid to leave their apartments for fear of being shot themselves. So backup was only a few minutes away. That should have been a small relief.

However, Gina couldn't be calm. Inside, she was a mess of scattered emotions ranging from terrified to furious. She had never been shot before and she had no desire to change that. So naturally, she was horrified at the prospect of a piece of metal embedding in her skin and ending her life in a heartbeat. Her instincts told her that this was wrong, that it would end in danger and trouble, and she didn't listen. Which caused the self loathing and frustration that compromised her aim of her own unsteady weapon trained on Lopez.

Her voice caught in her throat as her eyes skimmed over her partner. Any response or reasonable lie she could have given seemed unbearable. It was her fault that they were in this situation and she bore that burden without regard to herself.

Seth was bleeding on the floor beside her, the bullet wound in his right shoulder leaking a copious amount of sickeningly red blood that stained his suit and fingers. And even though the bullet was technically a through-and-through, it probably still hurt like hell. The panted gasps as he tried to right himself, pulling his head from the floor and rolling on his opposite side to look at her and the gunman, was enough proof that Gina had been right and wrong all at the same time. He didn't admit blame to her and she was grateful that he had more class than most men she had ever been with. But his eyes spoke volumes. Pained from the bullet wound he tried desperately to stop the blood flow, angry at Lopez, and somehow betrayed. Which Gina suspected was his definitive way of trying to grasp what she had gotten him into.

"We're FBI. Drop your weapon now." Gina hissed through clenched teeth, clenching her weapon until she was sure her fingers were going to snap due to the pressure.

"I knew it! You are with them! They know and they sent you to come get me." Lopez risked looking away for a moment to observe the nearby doors.

Gina could have shot him at that moment. She was a particularly good marksman in every firearms class she took. The chances of hitting her target were high. Except she didn't want to kill him so she would have had to immobilize him. Which would also probably result in herself being shot when the crack of a bullet left her gun. His trigger finger was too eager and the risks were too high.

She had to do something though. Seth was bleeding to death and the unsub was too trigger happy and paranoid, and _what the hell_ else could she do?

Swallowing her nerves, she forced her stance to relax minutely. Then flipped her gun in hand, holding it in her open palm to signify surrender. It wasn't surrender to her. Actually, it was a strategy she never thought could ever work.

"I'm not with them or anyone else." She stated, holding her hands outward and trying to keep her tone level over the panic that restricted her chest. "My partner and I do work with the FBI. We're investigating a series of murders…"

"Don't lie to me! I know you're with the other team that's been hunting me! This is some kind of trick to lure me out, isn't it? They're on their way now." Lopez interrupted with another step forward and jab of his gun for emphasis.

Gina didn't know what he was referring to but assumed he had some form of logic behind his paranoid thoughts. As far as she knew, her team was the only one working on the case. Too many chefs in the kitchen, as her father would say, would lead to mass confusion and no progress. Her team did know that she suspected Lopez as the unsub, but they were still running through the data to validate a warranted search of his home. Seth and Gina didn't wait for a warrant. Nor did they use any kind of surveillance before their arrival.

But if she was correct in assuming that this was some kind of test, then the people he was referring to were probably Cooper and whoever else worked on the unorthodox temporary team.

After seeing her partner get shot by a clearly disturbed unsub, she was sure this particular scene was not something Cooper intended to happen.

"Okay, just wait a minute." She shot her partner a warning glare when he reached for his gun at his hip, shaking her head to indicate that she had other ideas than to just shoot him. "We don't know what you're talking about. Our profile of a man who has been murdering UK retired soldiers pointed us to you. But we have never done any kind of previous surveillance." The older man tried to intervene but she carried on, swallowing her own fears as she stepped forward. There was still quite a bit of difference between them so physically removing the weapon from him before he could fire another bullet wasn't going to be possible. "I honestly don't know who you think is stalking you. But it isn't us."

"You just said that you know about those monsters…"

"The soldiers you butchered were innocent." Seth retorted angrily, pushing himself against the nearest wall. His left hand pressed against the seeping hole in his suit jacket as he attempt to stem the flow of blood. But it was already tacking to the wall he propped himself against, thick and dark and completely unhelpful to Gina's anxiety. He withdrew his gun despite Gina's silent warning and removed the safety, grimacing in pain as he propped it on his knee and directed it at the unsub. "They weren't like those kids who killed your wife."

Gina wanted to smack him for his carelessness to the situation. He was ruining any sense of understanding she was trying to establish between her and Lopez. Skill to defuse a hostage situation of any kind was difficult to come by and Seth had never been lenient or patient enough to learn. It shouldn't have been surprising to hear the hatred in his tone or see his ridiculous attempt to handle a defensive weapon. Still, she twisted to hiss a 'shut up' to him before he got himself killed.

Lopez's expression twitched again, something Gina had a hard time watching. He was pissed, furious, on the edge of shooting them both just to see how it would all end. And he was surprised by the outburst. Clearly he didn't expect such resistance from two agents, one of which he already injured.

Seth wasn't helping the situation. He threw his head back against the wall and stifled a moan, face paling with the seconds, glaring at the older man. "You _shot _me_! _What the hell do you expect from us!" He nearly shouted.

All of Gina's nerve-biting and apparently unsuccessful negotiations meant nothing at that point because Seth couldn't be quiet.

Lopez's aim went rigid as he narrowed his eyes. He was going to react, to shoot again, and Gina was officially out of time. The older man advanced several steps and directed the weapon at Seth. For a moment she thought he was going to fire a warning shot. But the chances of such a thing were ridiculous when she recognized the undeniable rage in his eyes.

She placed herself between the two men and regained use of her own gun in hand. For all of the adrenaline and fear that clouded her rational thoughts, she found that the weapon remained surprisingly steady. "Wait! Just stop and think about this for a minute!" She shouted, holding one hand outward in reflex. "You can't shoot us because others will know. They'll hunt you down and there will be nowhere to hide. So you really don't want to do this. I don't want to shoot you and I know you don't want to shoot us."

That was playing with fire.

And he didn't fall for it.

"You don't know me as well as you think." He replied quickly.

Gina prepared herself for what was to come. Lopez would pull the trigger of his gun and Gina would have to do the same. She had never shot anyone before and it wasn't something she desired to do. But she had to protect Seth and herself. That was why she had a gun. Protection during the cases with dangerously unstable unsubs kept the agents involved alive. At least, that was what she was taught at the academy.

But he didn't fire the weapon.

Gina was baffled as to why until she heard the ping of the elevator door alarm behind him. The black metal lift entered the shielded cage but never opened. Through the slants of metal, the interior appeared empty. It became clear in a matter of seconds that it was a distraction. And that was jus what Gina and Seth needed. Somehow she thought Simms had a hand in that. He was supposedly watching them on the security camera near the elevator. She made a mental note to thank him later. If he were responsible…

Lopez hesitated for a moment, knowing that looking away from Gina would probably result in getting shot. But curiosity and paranoia won and he turned towards it for just a second. As soon as his eyes caught sight of the empty container, he zipped his gaze back to the younger woman.

Seth took that opportunity to fire his own weapon. In his wounded state the bullet disappeared with a deafening bang into the other man's right femur. Then he was being yanked upwards by Gina and directed out of the line of fire. He choked on a hoarse cry when the motion jostled the seeping bullet wound. Gina ignored it as she directed him against the nearest door several feet away. He stumbled towards it, reaching blindly until his body came in contact with the wood.

She dashed towards the gasping figure of the unsub without a single glance at her partner. He had dropped his gun when the bullet embedded itself into his femur and his balance became compromised just as fast. Which left him futilely attempting to push himself back to his feet. One hand grasped the mass of dark red leaking from his leg, the other groped for his weapon just out of his reach. He panted and cursed and gasped with every movement. Some too muffled, others clear enough to make Gina blush at his choice of curse words.

Gina kicked it behind her, sending it sliding against the carpet until it collided with Seth's outstretched foot. Once she heard him retrieve the weapon and remove the remaining bullets, she ordered the other man to lay on the floor first-first and place his hands on his head. She holstered her weapon as soon as he ceased resisting and complied with a huff in defeat. Handcuffing him roughly with a knee in the center of his back, she glanced back at Seth and released a pent breath. "You okay?" She asked, watching him slide down the wall tiredly.

He threw his head back against the wall again and rolled his eyes, pressing his fingers on the bleeding wound tenderly while the other hand sat limp in his lap. His gun sat on the floor beside him with the weapon he confiscated. Adrenaline was still present but it was fading fast and the pain was becoming more evident on his features. "Yeah, I'm great. I've got a hole in my shoulder that hurts like hell, but I'm absolutely fine. Oh, and I think I smashed my finger too." A sudden smirk flashed on his pale features as she withdrew her cell phone, trying to call backup to handle the last two minutes of hell. He held his pointer finger against his leg lazily as he quipped with a pout, "Kiss it and make it better?"

Gina looked up from her phone and trembling fingers, then at the man moaning on the floor beside her feet. She shut her eyes for a moment to gather her voice. "You are incorrigible." She muttered.

"So I should take that as a no?"

She couldn't help but choke a laugh at his childishness. It was defensive, she knew, whenever he was injured or stressed and she, for the first time in months, didn't mind it. "Keep dreaming."

* * *

Just a quick note for now- Hello people! Sorry for the long wait for this. It takes a bit longer to write in this perspective than the usual. Don't ask me why because I don't know. I'm weird like that and admit it. Lol. Anyways, I hope you all enjoy this. All drabbles (Short stories or snippets not placed in my main arc.) will be put under one location for easier access. However, if the one-shot is more than two or three parts then it will be placed in its own file to conserve space. Part two will be posted as soon as it's finished. Let me know what you think. Thanks in advance to anyone who reads, reviews, and subscribes to this and my previous work!


	2. Live Up To Your First Impression Part 2

Criminal Minds Suspect Behavior drabbles.

Intermission

Summary- Sam Cooper never abides by the expectations of others. That includes choosing the members of his newly authorized Red Cell team. Gina's heard the rumors about her soon to be boss, but she never expected this.

Rated Teen mostly for cursing, a bit of blood that will not be expounded on too severely, and minor violence. Pairings are not really Mick/Gina because this is pre-series but it leans more towards them by the end. No spoilers exactly, but this does tie into my own work so keep that in mind. This particular one-shot will be divided into two or three parts because it's long. It's not written from the standard first person perspective of Gina like I normally use simply because that wouldn't work. I tried. And failed. Several times. It's good practice because not every chapter I write in my main arc can be written from Gina's perspective.

I don't own anything involving Criminal Minds Suspect Behavior. The only things I do own are my creations. I am simply burrowing everything else for my own entertainment and practice. No one else beta reads my stuff so any spelling and grammar mistakes are my own. Please don't verbally kill me for a typo.

Enjoy!

* * *

Live Up To Your First Impression Part 2

Overestimating or underestimating. Too much or not enough. Both were too similar to determine which was worse.

Seth had warned Gina about the technicalities. About inadvertently complicating the problems at hand and expecting too much from those around her. It was one of the few wise things he advised over the months of their partnership. Aside from his constant, almost obnoxious flirting, of course. So she tried to understand. Tried to push aside her intuition, which seemed to have a strange knack for being correct in the end, for the sake of remaining outwardly skeptical.

Perhaps he was right. Expectations in general could be dangerous in their line of work.

Gina _expected_ Cooper to be rational, orthodox, in some way. Which could have been considered a mistake because she hadn't even met the man yet. Instead of profiling her like any reasonable employer would do to pick apart every aspect of her in general and find the best qualifications for the job, he set an elaborate scheme in place. It was infuriating and impressive, and that was why Gina couldn't stop herself from dwelling on it.

To fool a team of highly trained FBI profilers into taking an already solved case took skill and courage. The director had to be compliant because Cooper would have needed discretion and authorization for such a dangerous plan. And he would have needed personnel to follow Lopez, hence the supposed Landlord of the apartment building and a faceless man named 'Mick'. Weeks of scheduling and planning had to ensure that everything went smoothly. No room for error, from either himself or those he used. Everything had to have been perfect or it would have blown back in his face.

Considering two people were shot and she hadn't received a reprimand for her actions from the director himself, she assumed it wasn't her career on the line at that moment. The mistake wasn't necessarily due to her, but to the timing Cooper chose.

But it felt as if it were. Which didn't make much sense and Gina admitted that to herself openly. She blamed herself because she hadn't realized what was happening sooner. Because it took two days for her to finally put the pieces together. Most of all, because Seth had gotten injured in the process. If she hadn't convinced him to drive her to the apartment building, hadn't been impatient, the outcome would have been different.

Regret. Present, strong, and absolutely justifiable.

Gina had nothing else to do but to stew in the emotion. Her remaining teammates were handling the mess at the apartment building. Cooper and Simms and whoever else involved was probably being threatened by the director of the FBI for their recklessness and mistakes. Lopez was secured in another hospital room down the hall from Seth, handcuffed to the bed with two local PD officers stationed outside the room as a precaution when he woke from his drug induced haze. And Seth had yet to regain consciousness after he was sedated during the surgery to fix the damage in his shoulder almost two hours before.

No one to talk to. Just her own imaginative thoughts for company. It was no wonder why she couldn't keep her thoughts from roaming.

After an hour of sitting by her partner's bed in recovery, she decided that fresh air would help her nerves. The afternoon sun was dampened by an approaching summer rainstorm, and the temperature had fallen with a comfortable breeze. Sitting on a metal bench usually reserved for people who turned to smoking during stress, set away from people and the building itself, watching the blur of people and cars while she sipped a distasteful cup of sludge the hospital deemed as coffee; in some unforeseen way it was calming.

Until she caught sight of two men walking towards her.

Pedestrians hadn't noticed her and she was grateful for that. But she jumped in recognition of Simms, dressed in the same attire he wore at the apartment building, the moment she saw him. She felt herself frown tightly and stiffen, grasping the nuke warm paper cup in a vice grip, and rose from her seat instantly. For a few moments she couldn't understand why they were at the hospital. Why they would care enough to waste their time. Then she looked at the older man walking in timed steps beside him. Really, _truly_ looked at him, and realized that they had a damned good reason for being there.

Cooper, in the flesh, her hopefully soon to be boss, was remorseful. It wasn't hidden on dark skinned, not quite bearded but definitely thick with stubble, and worn features. Deep eyes spoke of hard and painful years as they scanned the area effortlessly. Everything about his large and intimidating posture, dark jeans and a navy blue button shirt contrasted the black boots tattered with age, implied confidence. But he was obviously sorry for his actions and that alone should have been enough.

Except it wasn't enough.

Seth was still facing the possibility of losing his job in the field if his shoulder injury created more damage than originally anticipated. Confined to a desk job would have been a tragedy for his normally joyful personality. They had been tricked and fooled by Cooper. And she was not in the mood for accepting apologies because despite her own self loathing, she _wanted_ to be furious at Cooper and Simms and all else who assumed she was too stupid to realize what was happening.

When they finally closed the distance, she restrained herself from crushing the paper cup and throwing every curse word that came to mind, and forced a smile that she knew appeared more like a sneer. "I didn't expect to see you here." She stated emotionlessly with a quick nod at Simms.

Simms breathed a heavy sigh and nodded his agreement, teetering on his heels with hands in his jeans pockets. He glanced at Cooper, who offered his hand to Gina like any professional agent would do. "It's a pleasure to finally meet you, Agent LaSalle." His tone was crisp and sharp, direct to show that he was a man who chose his words wisely. When Gina stared at it blankly and made no indication to accept the civilly, he scratched the few centimeters of facial hair on his chin and motioned towards the bench. "I'm sorry, Agent LaSalle. What happened today was a mistake on our part…"

Gina tossed the half empty paper cup in the nearest trash bin as he spoke. Then crossed her arms to quell her rising anger and interrupted harshly, "It was a mistake. The entire plan you set in motion, and didn't bother to tell anyone else, was flawed from the beginning. I can't even believe you would try such a thing."

Cooper seemed to ponder that for a second before he replied quietly, "Yes, I'll admit that it was not one of my better plans. What happened to Agent McCall was never part of the plan. You were both a day earlier than I expected and one of my other agents wasn't in the right place at the right time to stop it."

"So he's to blame for the fact that Seth may lose his job for this? That we could have been killed by a paranoid murderer just a few hours ago?" She intervened again, tone growing more bitter and loud.

Simms shook his head and motioned towards the bench again. "No, not necessarily. We all agreed to help find a new member for our team. If you would just sit down for a few minutes and let us explain…"

"I don't need an explanation." She refused with an adamant slap of his hand away from her. "You two used an already solved case, one that you probably figured out yourself days ago, just to see who would solve it again first and how. While I do think that the concept is brilliant, the fact that it almost got us killed pisses me off. You could have already apprehended Lopez before giving us the case. If it was really meant as a test run, why the hell would you leave the unsub out so he could kill again? It doesn't make sense." She didn't intend to rant. But she losing her temper with the amount of stress weighing on her shoulders.

Cooper disrupted her with a surrendering motion of his hands. "I get it. You're angry and still shaken up. It's my fault that any of this had to happen and I take full responsibility. I've already cleared it with Fickler and neither you or your partner will be punished for what happened." He paused as he stepped forward, dropping his tone to something more sincere. "I really am sorry. None of that was supposed to happen. We all make mistakes and I'm no exception."

Those few sentences were all it took to deflate the tension. She may have wanted to be angry at Cooper and everyone else. But the apology was sincere, genuine, and once she heard it, remaining furious simply wasn't possible. She felt it start to abate with the passing seconds as she looked towards Simms for confirmation. When he nodded his agreement again, she found that staying outwardly anxious was much harder.

She squeezed her eyes closed and rubbed her face tiredly, silently wishing time would reverse to the moments she awoke earlier that morning and the day had just been a horrible nightmare. An exaggerated sigh fell off her lips as she sank onto the bench and buried her face in her hands once more. "I don't think I want to join your team after all." She mumbled dejectedly, voice muffled by her own hands.

Cooper didn't reply immediately. He crouched in front of her, balancing on his heels, and tapped her shoulder gently. "I understand if you want to reconsider. Joining my team has never been mandatory and I won't force you."

Gina pulled herself upwards, straightening herself in the seat to prop her chin on her hands and her elbows on her knees. "Can I just have a few hours to think things over before I make a final decision?"

"Of course. We're not exactly in any kind of hurry. Fickler has made it pretty clear that we'll be monitored more closely as punishment. So take as much time as you need." Cooper responded as he stood.

Simms' sudden thoughtful expression caught Gina's attention. He ceased teetering on his heels and turned to the senior agent. "Mick is still going to meet us at the local park tomorrow morning for football with a few other Red Cell teams, right?"

Cooper frowned in confusion, unsure as to why that mattered at the moment. He glanced at Gina for a long moment, then nodded. "His definition of football is different from ours. I haven't told him that it's not actually soccer like he thinks it is and I'm not eager to do so. He's going to be disappointed. But yeah, he promised to meet us there. Why?"

"Well, according to records, she's always had partners who are psychologically interesting. People who, based on every other piece of profiling data known, don't make sense. They're personality makes them unique and interesting to be around."

Gina cleared her throat to interrupt, discomforted by the fact that he was talking about her in her presence. But Cooper seemed to read between the lines. He knew what Simms was going to suggest and didn't protest the idea. Instead, he turned to the younger woman with a reassuring expression. "Why don't you come with us. You don't have to play if you don't want to. But I'd like you to meet someone. If you don't want to join after meeting him, then I won't bother you again."

That sounded like a reasonable request. Just one last meeting. One remaining _test_. At least it sounded better than the previous. Besides, whoever 'Mick' was had to be interesting enough for Cooper to take notice and hire him. Americans didn't usually refer to soccer as football so he was probably foreign. Based on his name, she guessed he was immigrated from somewhere like England, Ireland, or Scotland. And if that didn't spike her interest, then the assessment by Simms certainly made her curious to learn more.

She pondered for a moment, fingering her necklace out of habit. "I'll think about it."

That was the truth. She would think about it. As well as consult Seth on the decision. Unfortunately she had the feeling that he wouldn't be open to the idea because it would have meant losing his partner. Gina wasn't entirely sold on the idea due to that fact either.

* * *

_Disappointment._

Gina knew the emotion well enough to anticipate Seth's reaction. She knew he could never handle rejection or a major change in his surroundings well. It was one of the things she profiled rather easily about him when they met. He had never discussed his personal life, although he did mention that his parents were alive and living in Canada, but Gina had the inkling suspicion that there was a reason. His personality, the constant flirting and childish imagination that contradicted his obsessive desire for control and stability, could only mean one thing. He needed someone stable, something present at all times to keep him happy. More than likely it was stemmed from a lonely childhood, consisting of no true friends and a constant change in environment such as parents who were over restrictive and moved from one place to another every few months.

She could almost sympathize with him on that. Her own family was very military oriented and her father spent years moving them from one base to the next along the east coast. So she understood what it felt like to need stability when home was a fluctuating thing.

Unwillingly, Gina became his stability. When she presented the news that she was considering taking Cooper's offer at the park the next morning, he would have been livid.

So she was procrastinating.

And Seth knew it. He had only been awake for a few minutes and the majority had been taken by nurses checking his vitals and small chat that was more welcomed than Gina dared to admit aloud. How he knew something was ailing her, she didn't know. Then again, she wasn't the only profiler in the room.

"Okay, so what's the deal?" He questioned during a few unsettling moments of silence between them. Propped on pillows against the raised head of the bed, scratching the black Velcro cloth strap wrapped around his torso and arm that kept his shoulder from jostling the stitches, he gave a demanding expression. In the brisk white hue of the overhead lights, the harshness to his usually playful eyes and still somewhat pale skin was haunting.

Gina exchanged it with feigned confusion, stilling her movements of her fingers on a loose black thread of the uncomfortably hard upholstered chair set a mere five feet from the edge of the bed. She uncrossed her legs to change position and heaved a sigh. Then shook her head and shrugged as if to say that she had no idea what he was talking about.

"Gina, I'm not stupid. So what's made you so quiet?" He pressed for an answer again, shifting in the starch white sheets carefully. Gina didn't miss the slight short tone to his words, which probably meant the morphine he was given was wearing thin.

"It's nothing you need to worry about. I just talked with Cooper, who sends his regards for accidentally getting you shot, and that landlord from the apartment building, who is actually one of Cooper's agents…"

"Wait, so your theory was right? We were being tested?" Seth interrupted quickly as he raised his eyebrows in surprise. "But I don't think getting shot was part of the plan. We're not going to get fired for all this mess though, right? I mean, they set it up so they should be blamed."

Gina nodded her agreement and returned her attention to the frayed string against her fingers, tugging at it to formulate a better explanation. She didn't _want _to tell him the rest of the conversation. But there was no way to avoid it because he would have seen through the lie. He always saw through the majority of lies, whether from unsubs or teammates. "No, Cooper said we're okay in the eyes of Fickler and anyone else who could fire us. They're in a lot of trouble for the stunt though. He was actually apologetic about the entire thing. Both him and Simms kept apologizing and it really was genuine. They didn't mean for things to get out of hand. We were a day too early in finding the unsub and that threw off their timing." She replied after a tense moment.

The pause was suffocating and telling, and Gina almost winced at the sudden vacancy that made the monitoring equipment attached to Seth seem louder. He was watching and observing. Profiling every move on her features as she tried to mask them. She expected him to read her thoughts aloud as if she had done so herself. But he stayed silent, eyes keenly tracing her in hopes that she would forget the damned string on the chair and focus on him. Gina didn't know what else to say at that point because it felt as if he already knew. And if he already knew, then what else was there to say?

His expression visibly darkened, twisting the pale features into something more pained. Gina knew it wasn't caused by his injury. Knew that what he read on her face was more painful than a hundred bullet wounds. Which would have been ridiculous because he wouldn't survive that many. However, it was the same look of fear and betrayal that he wore when he was shot, only ten times worse.

"You weren't going to tell me, were you?" It was more of a statement than a question, but it still held the appropriate level of disdain and uncertainty to be considered otherwise. He narrowed his eyes as she stiffened rigidly and blinked at him in speechlessness. Then continued bitterly as she tried to explain. "He offered you another shot to get into the team and you weren't going to tell me. That's why you were talking to him. Why he came here in the first place. It wasn't to apologize. He still wants you on the team. Meaning you're thinking about leaving…"

"It's not like that!" She hissed over his rant, jolting towards him and gripping the seat armrests until her nails dug into the upholstery. Her muscles in her fingers screamed as she tightened her grip and locked eyes with him, her heart thumping too loudly in her chest to be comfortable. This was what she wanted to avoid like the plague. What she didn't want to admit aloud because aside from it being a smart career move, it made her appear like an ungrateful ass in the eyes of a man she had nothing but respect for.

"Then what is it _like_?" He breathed through clenched teeth, holding her eyes relentlessly.

For that split second, Gina wished the world would end. She wished some natural disaster would strike DC and the hospital and then she wouldn't _have _to say it. That was selfish, she was being selfish, and she didn't care. What was running through her head at that second couldn't be said aloud no matter what happened. There was just no way it ever could.

Yes, she liked Seth. Too much. And that was why she was considering Cooper's offer. Why she signed up for his unorthodox testing to begin with. They couldn't be friends and partners and still continue to act the way they had always done. Personally, she needed to distance herself from the prospect of actually falling for the older man. It wasn't a decision to be made lightly and she expected nothing less. But she couldn't tell him no matter how much her rational brain told her that it would answer everything for them.

So she blinked first in their painstakingly tense staring contest. Flopping back against the chair, she heaved a sigh that felt like she had exhaled her last breath. Then rubbed her eyes tiredly and mumbled, "I'm sorry…"

"Don't do that." He intervened before the final words fully left her mouth. "Don't apologize. It's ridiculous. Just admit it. The real reason you're sick of being my partner is…" He trailed off in indication for her finish, stern and demanding and Gina knew there was no way in hell she was getting out of the admission in tact.

"I'm not sick of being your partner." She stated with as much stamina in her tone as she could muster. "I like being your partner. We're friends and I admire that. But this isn't about you. This is about furthering my career."

"So you're being a selfish witch?" He replied without any form of hesitation.

Gina felt her own face twist into a disbelieving expression, replaying his words in her head as if she had misheard them. "That better be the lack of painkillers talking." She seethed, edging herself to the end of the seat as anger swelled in her chest. No one, not unless they desired a boot between the legs to make them scream or several missing teeth as souvenirs, had ever come close to calling the horribly similar word. Certainly not Seth.

He didn't appear to recognize his mistake as he clarified, "I didn't add a _B_ to that word because how much you hate it. But it's true so I don't see the problem."

That was all it took for Gina to jump from her seat like a rabbit, sending the chair a few inches backwards as she drew herself as tall as possible on one inch heeled boots. "What the hell is wrong with you! You were happy that I sent my application at the apartment building. Hell, you even admitted to sending yours too. Where did the encouraging Seth I know go because you are certainly not it."

"He disappeared when you decided that you wanted to abandon me." He retorted briskly.

Gina was still pissed, but something about his words seemed to make sense. It was her fault that their relationship had just flushed down the drain. That months of friendship and pretending that was all it could ever be were lost in a ridiculous argument. She wanted to push him away for the sake of both their careers. Or so she told herself. But he was clinging and while Gina could understand from a psychological position, she really had no desire to be in a relationship with someone who clung to her. That only made her excuses sound more plausible.

She unclenched her fists, which she wasn't even aware that she had been digging her nails into her own palms, and jabbed a finger towards his face. "You're an absolute ass. You flirt with any woman with two legs and a pretty face that even has the remote possibility of going home with you at night because you're insecure. You need company because you were lonely as a child and somehow that's carried into your adult life. And now you're clinging to me because I'm the only woman brave enough to call you out on it and that makes me a challenge." She ranted bitterly, spouting everything she had profiled about him over the past few months. "You're just like every other damned alpha male personality with emotional baggage. I don't even know why I stayed this long. Or why I thought I could really have feelings for you. That's why I'm leaving."

Why that last sentence fell off her lips, she had no idea. It was unintentional, caught in the sequence of words formulated by frustration and anger she could only cap for so long. But it was in the open and she would have traded everything to just take it back. She never meant to say it. There was nothing she could have done to change it though.

The shocked expression on Seth's face was dangerously close to rage. He staggered for a response, grinding his jaw as his brain fought words. Then, to Gina's surprise, he pushed himself into a more upright position. "Fine, then leave." He breathed with a heavy grimace as the movement pulled on fresh stitches. "If I've got too much _baggage_ for your preference, then just leave. Go join some damned Red Cell team and see how long you last chasing the more dangerous unsubs. Hopefully one of them doesn't kill you in the process."

His words were defensive and Gina heard the heartache beyond the anger. Telling her to leave in that manner was submissive and she had never guessed he would be capable of such a thing. It sounded as though he truly meant it, like he really wanted her to leave, but Gina knew otherwise. She knew he just wanted to be left alone to his thoughts and grievances. So he was surrendering the fight and ending the conversation for the sake of all those involved. Weather he meant the hostility in his tone or not.

Gina had no objections to that. Not after he had been such a hypocrite about everything.

She held his gaze for a few more seconds, trying to see if he would change his mind and apologize. When it didn't appear like he had any intentions to do so, she sighed in defeat and disbelief. "And to think I actually thought I fell for you… It's absolutely absurd…" She muttered to herself as she crossed the room towards the closed door in three long strides.

The moment her hand yanked the door open, his voice threatened to stop her. He called out her name, rough and demanding but somehow begging all the same. The prospect of her truly leaving must have shaken him out of his behavior because he was pushing himself out of the bed to stop her.

Gina had already stepped out of the room before he could swing leg over the edge of the mattress, slamming the door behind her with enough force to draw attention from medical staff and locals on the same floor.

She hadn't made her decision to go to the park in the morning until Seth's true nature showed. Until she realized that what she thought was intrigue beneath the mask was really just an insecure man trying too hard. And she wanted nothing to do with a man like that. They were often trouble that she didn't need.

Pushing herself away from the closed door, she drew her cell phone from her jacket pocket and dialed one of her teammates stationed at the office to try to gather Cooper's number from Fickler. She may have been uncertain about joining because she was waiting for Seth's approval, but he had just made the decision for her.


	3. Live Up To Your First Impression Part 3

Criminal Minds Suspect Behavior drabbles.

Intermission

Summary- Sam Cooper never abides by the expectations of others. That includes choosing the members of his newly authorized Red Cell team. Gina's heard the rumors about her soon to be boss, but she never expected this.

Rated Teen mostly for cursing, a bit of blood that will not be expounded on too severely, and minor violence. Pairings are not really Mick/Gina because this is pre-series but it leans more towards them by the end. No spoilers exactly, but this does tie into my own work so keep that in mind. This particular one-shot will be divided into two or three parts because it's long. It's not written from the standard first person perspective of Gina like I normally use simply because that wouldn't work. I tried. And failed. Several times. It's good practice because not every chapter I write in my main arc can be written from Gina's perspective.

I don't own anything involving Criminal Minds Suspect Behavior. The only things I do own are my creations. I am simply burrowing everything else for my own entertainment and practice. No one else beta reads my stuff so any spelling and grammar mistakes are my own. Please don't verbally kill me for a typo.

Enjoy!

* * *

Live Up To Your First Impression Part 3

Friday, August 11, 2009.

Gina had never understood the point behind football. Well, she knew enough from her father and cousins to recite some of the minor rules and regulations behind the sport. But she had never wanted to learn the sport herself. Nor did she truly understand why so many men in America, and across the world apparently, flocked to such a potentially violent past time. It must have been an alpha male trait, to see who was better by beating the hell out of each other for a misshapen ball. She had seen enough men in the news or heard more than she cared for from her father about famous football stars dying from a severe injury caused by the sport. Or someone without the proper protection playing with some brutally violent friends that wound up putting themselves in the hospital because of it.

She wasn't the type to avoid physical exercise or training. Self protection was taught in the academy and during a hand to hand combat fight, she was much more skilled than a majority of her opponents. And she liked to run every morning before work, traveling from her apartment building to her favorite café for coffee and breakfast a few blocks away before returning. So she wasn't opposed to the idea of sport in general. Just the idea that football was one of the most violent she had ever seen.

However, she found herself strangely fascinated by the group of men fighting each other for the oval ball in a scarcely populated park.

It was nine in the morning by the time Gina found her way to the surprisingly active park. The sun had been subdued by the remnants of the previous night summer rain storm that muddied several patches of grass beneath the men's dirty sneakers. Few picnic tables scatted under a canopy of dark oak trees set back from the possible dangers of the running men were occupied with lidded coolers, piles of towels and personal begs undoubtedly containing extra clothing and sneakers. Pedestrians not concerned with Cooper or his band of loud FBI agents either walked their dogs on the jogging path spanning the perimeter, or the occasional couple enjoyed the warm weather over a fast food breakfast on the polished benches overlooking a working memorial fountain.

The scene would have been tranquil had it not been for the dozen sweaty men in various shorts, cargo pants, sweatpants, and tee shirts clinging to their skin in unison with mud. And the fact that Cooper was late.

Gina watched them for several moments, sitting on the edge of the farthest picnic table from them with one leg crossed over the other and her hand fumbling with her cell phone against her tight jean covered thigh. The still air was calming, the sun's warmth radiating off her bare arms and through the cotton of her own vibrant navy blue blouse. She readjusted her sunglasses aimlessly before restricting her hand from her necklace. Then glanced down at her cell phone as it vibrated in her hand again.

Seth.

He had been relentlessly trying to contact her over the past twelve hours. At first, she just ignored him because she was still pissed at his attitude during their last conversation. Then he started calling every two hours and leaving voice mail messages requesting that she call him as soon as possible. Two hours shorted to every one on the minute, which quickly followed a series of text massages with relatively the same words. After removing the phone's battery because it wouldn't stop buzzing until three in the morning, she was beginning to worry that something was wrong. Judging by his texts, he just wanted to apologize though.

Apologies could wait.

Scrolling through the list of texts, she peeked over the phone to smirk as Simms threw the ball to a teammate who quickly scored the point. He was dressed in long gray shorts that hid his knees but did nothing to protect his long legs against the mud and grass stains that clung to the hair. His red tee shirt was in no better state, clinging to his tall frame with sweat that darkened the little amount of hair on his head.

"And that's how you score!" He exclaimed loudly in excitement. Several of his teammates clapped him on the back and commended his good arm.

"How the bloody hell was that a goal?" A thick, what Gina assumed was some form of old English, tone questioned disapprovingly. Gina struggled to see around the men, craning her neck to get a visual of the man who grabbed her interest. Once he moved away from Simms, scowling as the older man laughed at him, she couldn't take her eyes away.

He must have been the same Mick she had heard about the day before. Despite the warm weather, he dressed in sweat drenched long black shorts that hid the majority of his legs and thin gray long-sleeve with the sleeves themselves rolled to just above his elbows. Short dark hair plastered against his forehead but still managed to stick in any direction. He was younger than her by only a year at the most, but the inch of thick dark stubble drawn on tight features as he muttered something under his breath suggested otherwise.

Yes, she admitted that he was attractive. But that wasn't why she couldn't peel her eyes away. He was different than any other Englishman she had encountered over her lifetime. Something about him was just…interesting.

"I told you, it's called a pass. Believe it or not, this is kind of like soccer. Except the ball is oval and most of the time you throw it with your hands." Simms responded calmly, waving his teammates back into position again.

"This is nothing like _soccer_. You Yanks have ruined football. Who the hell plays football without their foot? Doesn't that defeat the purpose of calling it _foot-ball_?" He debated, or rather complained.

The others didn't seem to like his attitude or being referred to as _Yanks_. One, an older dark skinned man who must have been the opposing team leader, shot him a harsh glare and barked, "Stop your damn complaining, _Brit_, and start learning how to play. Cooper will be here any minute and I'm sure he wants to see that you've done something productive other than whine about how much you hate this."

Mick ground his teeth for a moment, biting his tongue to stop a nasty reply on the tip of his tongue. Simms took notice and clapped him on the shoulder roughly, somehow smiling to the other captain. "First, he's Welsh. As in from Wales UK. Actually from what I've heard, it's London after he moved from Wales…"

"You're not helping." The younger man hissed as he shrugged away from Simms, folding his arms tightly.

Simms shook his head as he continued with a pointed look towards the parking lot several feet away. "Second, Cooper's already here."

Gina pulled her attention away the moment she heard the roar of an engine cease. She had been so fixated on the men in front of her that she hadn't even noticed Cooper's motorcycle pull into a parking space away from other vehicles. The bike was well worn and certainly had many miles beneath its wheels. It sagged slightly under his weight as he set the kickstand in place with his boot and seemed to lighten as he rose and slid off. His old jet black helmet and leather gloves were removed, hung on the handle bar and secured in a large pouch tied at the back of the seat. He paid them no attention as he fussed with the pouch, finally retracting a small brown leather box.

"Hey Coop!" Simms called out with a wave of his hand and a quick nod at Gina.

Gina didn't think they had even known she was there. There was no indication from him or the Welshman, which she thought was odd, but there was from a few others who scanned her up and down before offering a flirtatious grin in approval. She just rolled her eyes in annoyance at them.

Cooper offered a smile to hide his surprise as he approached Gina. Once he set the box down on the table behind her, he offered his hand in welcome. "Good to see you, Gina. We're off the clock until Monday, so there's no need for formalities. Unless you say otherwise…"

"Gina's fine. Thanks for asking though. Not many people do in this line of work." She responded as she slid off the table and onto the seat, shaking Cooper's hand out of more respect than she had portrayed earlier, bouncing her gaze from the men to Cooper every few seconds. "You didn't expect me to come, did you?" She asked quietly, setting her phone on the table and watching Simms listen to something Mick was mumbling as they observed her with an expression she recognized as profiling.

For whatever Mick said, which followed a toothy grin that made him seem more like an over-hormone driven teenager with the way his dark chocolate colored gaze was scaling her thin frame, Simms smacked him on the back of the head lightly and swayed a finger in his face in warning. He looked dumbfounded as he stepped away from him and rubbed his head, narrowing his eyes in disbelief that he had just hit him.

Although it was childish in nature, it was forced. Gina saw the way he flinched when the other man made contact with him. The way he kept himself a few feet in distance at all times. She knew the most likely reason was because he didn't trust Simms. Football was a close contact sport and judging by the way he avoided being physically touched by the other men, he probably didn't trust them either. Why? There were too many scenarios that could have explained it. Anything from severe abandonment to physical abuse to forced survival during a traumatizing event. Or he was simply too new to the US to risk trusting people he didn't know yet. She didn't want to guess until she had more data to be correct.

Cooper chuckled at the childish behavior and shouted to them, "Go ahead and play another round! I'll join in the next one! Losing team buys lunch!" As they nodded in agreement and started the next game, he unlocked the leather box and answered Gina's previous question. "No, I honestly didn't expect you to agree. I know you're determined to get into a Red Cell and given your age, that's admirable. Most agents don't get that drive until they've had a few years worth of experience. Fickler isn't completely sold on the idea of you joining because you lack experience. But I think a new pair of eyes will be our best asset."

Gina felt herself blush slightly at the compliment. She already knew that requesting a Red Cell position would have been frowned upon by the director because of her age and lack of experience. But she didn't let that stop her because it couldn't. She wanted to prove that her sister wasn't the only _intelligent_ one in the family and joining a team that no one thought she could would have been the equivalent of throwing it back in their faces.

"So I take it that's who you want me to meet?" She questioned with a pointed nod towards the Welshman.

He and Simms were tossing the ball to each other back and forth, dodging charging people as the younger of the two ran for the side farthest away that would give them a point. As soon as the ball fell in his hands again and he twisted to remain moving, another man tagged him from the side. Because Mick was thinner than the others, although Gina could see the prominent muscles flexing beneath his shirt and legs as he ran, and therefore probably weighed less, the force sent him toppling to the ground in a mess of tangled limbs feet from his previous position. He laid still for a few seconds as the other man untangled himself, keeping his face on the muddy ground as he fought to catch his breath. Simms called for time out and rushed to his side, forcing him to his feet and gripping his shoulders to keep him steady.

Mick swayed for a moment, then shook his head and pressed his fingers against his side where he had been rammed tenderly. That was going to leave an unpleasant bruise... It wasn't heard, but Gina could almost read the tension in Simms' posture as he asked if the younger man was alright. Mick shrugged him off a second later, shaking his head as if that were going to help and distancing himself once more.

Cooper looked up from his box as it fell open onto the table and frowned at Simms, starting to rise from the seat as worry began to take hold. Simms gave a quick nod towards him, silently saying that he was watching carefully. That seemed to be enough for Cooper to sink back into the seat and turn his attention back to the box.

Inside were four rows of old hand carved wooden chess pieces lined in perfect order. Few appeared to have been chipped and scratched with age, and Gina had to wonder what he was planning with them. The board itself was locked into the lid with a leather strap, folded in half by a slightly rusted hinge embedded into the wood. She hoped he didn't expect her to play chess. Not because she didn't know how, but because she hadn't done so since she was a child. If winning the game was her final test, then she was screwed.

"Mick Rawson. Age twenty six. Raised in various foster homes across London with his younger sister before they were adopted by a caring family. Joined British Special Forces when he was nineteen after graduating top of his class in Sandhurst. SAS took him in as their best sniper a few months later. Worked a few years in Iraq and Afghanistan on special missions that required his skills. Then joined Interpol and solved international serial murder cases between assignments for SAS. Technically, he's just on loan from SAS and Interpol. I was able to pull a few strings to get him in the states, but SAS still has rank. If they want him back for another mission, he can't refuse without risking jail time for breach of a special contract he signed when he was seventeen." Cooper rattled off the information like it was rehearsed, like he had read it out of a file. He paused setting up the chess board to watch Gina's expression.

She had been right. Somehow she knew he was military. Perhaps it was the way he carried himself. The unwillingness to let people physically touch him coincided with several abusive foster homes. Determination to win and not show defeat, even after he was rammed by someone twice his size and had been thrown a good two feet, probably came from the basic sniper personality. But, in saying all of that, realizing that he was only a few months younger than her and had done much more than she had ever imaged was amazing.

Simms wasn't lying when he said that she liked interesting personalities.

"He's having a hard time adjusting to civilian life again." Cooper continued as he started placing the chess pieces on the board. "In January he was sent overseas for a mission he wasn't allowed to tell me about. When he came back and I asked him to join the FBI and come to the US, he jumped at the opportunity. He lived in my loft's spare room from the night he arrived in early April until the first of May. Then found his own apartment and doesn't usually let people into it unless they're invited. Even then, it's only for a few hours just for lunch or dinner while we go over case files. As far as I know, the one night stands he's had have never stepped foot into his apartment. They've always just booked a cheap motel room. Which is good, I guess, because it would be dangerous to have case files in the apartment where some half drunken woman with a grudge could get them."

Gina nodded her agreement and frowned as he stopped moving pieces of the chess game. A small group was still on the table, and the placement of those on the board itself implied an already established game. It didn't make sense. Why would he only complete half of the board and the rest of the pieces in a strange position?

"So he's some kind of prodigy when it comes to the SAS and snipers and solving serial murder cases, right?" She concluded with a glance towards the Welshman.

Simms had the football this time, weaving around two slightly smaller men that attempted to ram into him. He made long strides towards the goal, ending the few feet of space within a matter of seconds. The look on his face was concentrated and excited and Gina couldn't help but grin at it. Mick was a few feet away, giving backup to fend off the opposing team that tried to stop them.

Just as Simms put one foot on the goal line, Mick was tackled from the front by a much larger opponent and thrown into him. They fell over the line in tangled limbs once again. The ball rolled out of Simms' hands as he braced himself for the fall accordingly and landed with his muddy sneakers scraping skin and hair from Mick's lower legs and an elbow in his ribs. And somehow during all of that, it was still obviously considered in bounds. Meaning the point was still belonging to Simms' team.

Mick rolled onto his back as Simms fell off of him. He shut his eyes tightly and pressed himself into the dirt, breathing long intakes of air through an open mouth. One hand dug into the ground while the other wrapped around the area Simms had accidentally elbowed him.

Simms called for a time out again as he climbed to his feet, wiping the mud from his hands onto his shirt and grimacing as he cracked his back. He offered his hand to pull Mick up, but the younger man refused. For a moment they just stared at each other. Mick had no desire to get up and Gina had the suspicion it was because he was trying to hide injury or he was still horribly winded. Simms gave him little choice as he ordered everyone to take a water break for five minutes. Then gripped his upper arm and pulled him onto his feet once again.

The two teams diverged onto the picnic tables a minute later, using towels to rid themselves of mud and sweat and emptying cold water and Gatorade bottles within several large gulps. Simms dragged Mick to the table Cooper and Gina were situated at. Mick was struggling to free himself rather effortlessly, pushing away from the older man and muttering something Gina assumed was Welsh. Cooper stood as they approached and offered his seat in front of the chess board. When Mick refused, Simms shoved him onto it with a roll of his eyes at the ridiculous stubbornness.

"Just sit and breath for a minute before you pass out. I'm not hauling your stinking ass in my car all the way to a hospital." Simms responded to the argument harshly.

Cooper produced two bottles of Gatorade and two towels from the nearest pile and split them between his teammates. He was concerned for the younger man's physical well being as he opened the cap and instructed him to drink. Gina could tell there was something unspoken between them. A form of trust that the younger sniper didn't dare show towards Simms yet. Everything Cooper said about the SAS sounded personal, like he had witnessed it first hand. If that were true, then the rumors involving his time out of the FBI may have been true as well. The bond between them was more towards the lines of father and son to a point as well as older to younger brothers.

It was strange, which only fascinated Gina even more.

"You lot worry too much. It's no wonder your both getting gray." Mick stated as he wiped his face with the towel hung over one shoulder, sipping the bottle of energy drink slowly. He ignored Simms' feigned annoyance and twisted in his seat to face Gina. "Hello darling." He purposefully drew his accent thicker and gave an expression Gina was sure would have had most woman drooling. It was flirting, harmless really, and Gina was so accustomed to Seth's brash version that Mick's slightly less abrasive attempt was actually humorous.

She grinned in spite of herself and suppressed a chuckle by biting her lip. "Hello. I take it you say that to every woman you meet. It's the accent that gets them, right?"

He shrugged a few inches and shifted in the seat to properly face her, his back to his teammates as he balanced the bottle inches from the pieces of the chess board. "I don't know. What do you think?"

Cooper shook his head at the flirting, clearly not surprised by it but not entirely supportive either. Something told Gina that this was usual behavior. The one night stands mentioned were probably picked up at a bar during drinks after a case. More than likely, something about being in a war zone had changed him just enough to make the flirting more restrained. Unfortunately men with Mick's general personality severely lacked self control and Gina expected that to be a problem for him. Cooper appeared to have changed that somehow, either from his supposed psychological experiments on a willing soldier or something else he did. He sat on the opposite end of the bench from Gina and watched in a mixture of curiosity and amusement. One hand twisted a missing king piece from the chess board between his fingers mindlessly.

Simms was a bit more direct. Sucking his last drink of Gatorade in one gulp, he used the empty bottle to smack Mick against the back of the head for the second time. "You're flirting again. With a potential teammate this time. I don't know if the same rule applies in Interpol, but you can't be involved in a relationship with a teammate in the FBI. Not unless you both want to get transferred to different locations. Trust me, it doesn't end well for either party."

Mick flinched when the plastic made contact with skin, gripping the edge of the table to stop himself from reacting on instinct. He spun in his seat after a few unsettling seconds and hissed, "Touch me again and I'll rip your bloody arm off. Got it, _Prophet_?"

Prophet. That was an unusual nickname. Gina was curious as to the origins but didn't voice her curiosity yet. Instead she watched Simms hold his hands up in mock surrender and take a step backwards. He glanced at Cooper with a nervous expression, who shook his head as if to tell him to back off, and sighed in defeat. "Okay, I get it. No touching. Sorry, didn't know you had some weird phobia of being touched. I'll make sure to mention that to the next woman who tries to get you out of the bar when your drunk and into their bedroom." He spun on his heels and left before Mick could complete his impressive string of curses mingling on his tongue.

"It's not some damned phobia…" He muttered to himself as he turned back to Gina and the chess board. The bottle was slammed on the table beside him as he leaned against his elbows, somehow replacing anger with flirtation in the blink of an eye. "So where were we, darling? It's Gina, yeah? That's a lovely name by the way."

Gina was more lost in the sudden change than his compliment. She had read profiles about snipers in the past, had studied them extensively because they were intriguing. But she had never met a sniper like him. In the past, her father had friends who were snipers. None of them were like that though. They weren't overly flirtatious to compensate for the obvious distrust of people. Some were paranoid to a fault, such as never walking the same path twice or confining themselves to lesser populated area to avoid people. Others were the best liars in the world, convincing themselves and everyone else around them that they were mentally sound when they were certainly far from it. She had never seen someone with that same personality willingly do what he did though. It was almost as if he was forcing himself to go against what he truly wanted for the sake of his own mental health.

She had a feeling Cooper was involved in that.

"I'll leave you two alone to talk for a few minutes." Cooper stated as he slid off of the bench and rounded the table behind Gina. He patted her on the shoulder gently as he continued, "And yes, he is a prodigy. So don't let that grin fool you." Mick frowned at the older man, but Cooper ignored it and ordered sternly, "Don't give me that look, kid. If she's going to join our team, then she has to know who she's dealing with because she'll be your partner. So you two just sit here and talk for a bit while they're all on break. I expect a solution for that game by the time I come back."

"Yeah, I got it, grandpa. Think outside the box and all that mess. I do actually pay attention." Mick retorted with a wave of his hand in signal for the other man to leave them alone already.

Gina waited until he drifted towards the other Red Cell agents, then sighed silently and propped her elbows on the table, leaning forward to study the younger man. There were lines on his face that contradicted his age. A faint hollow to his features that suggested, and she was just guessing at that point, starvation in the past. He was light on his feet but still carried enough muscle to defend himself well if needed, so Gina couldn't tell if or when something like that had ever occurred. His expression remained lax but she could see the tension in his eyes, the never ending need to be alert of his surroundings because he was surrounded by people he didn't know or trust.

She found it all troubling because it meant that he was lying. Maybe not intentionally, but he was lying to himself and everyone else about the fact that somehow, caused by either his younger years in abusive homes or whatever traumatizing things he had to do overseas, he was damaged.

Swallowing the sudden uncomfortable feeling at the thought, she fought to retain her smile as she dropped her gaze to the chess board. "So… You've only been in the states for a few months?"

He followed her eyes to the board, fiddling with a nearby bishop as he responded honestly, "Yeah, since April. Took a few crash courses at the FBI academy and graduated about a month ago. There wasn't much to it. SAS training was a hell of a lot harder." He paused to scan the chess board before moving the bishop, and Gina could almost physically see the gears turning in his head.

She knew what Cooper had planned with the chess board at that moment. It was a distraction. Something to keep Mick's normally busy mind occupied so he would have been honest during their conversation. She was impressed that Cooper had done so in a way that wasn't so easily perceived and therefore Mick didn't object. It probably wasn't his first time but she suspected it was reserved to be used only in absolute necessity so the younger man wouldn't have seen what the true motivation was.

And that was why he had been considered one of the founding fathers of profiling.

"You're a bit young to have a lot of years in the SAS. Cooper mentioned you had a few…"

His head shot up to meet her instantly, eyes growing wide in surprise. Gina assumed she had misspoken or said something offensive. But he dropped his gaze to the chess board and forced a smirk regardless. "You're not the first to say that. I'm the youngest and best sniper SAS has at the moment. It's not the safest job in the world and heaven knows it'll probably be the death of me. But it pays the bills just as much as Interpol and the FBI. And it keeps my family safe, so I can't complain too much." He moved another piece, a knight on the opposite side of the board, and looked up at her to ask, "What about you? Not every newbie from the academy wants to join a Red Cell. What makes you different? Other the fact you have a lovely name and eyes that could melt a heart."

Gina laughed lightly at his compliment and shrugged. She had her reasons and she thought she knew what she was getting herself into. After everything she had realized about Seth, a change was more welcomed than she wanted to admit. "I have my reasons just as much as you have yours." She answered simply. Then grabbed the last rook from the board and moved it to what she thought was the only possible option for it. "And I doubt you're willing to share."

Mick cocked his head slightly as he watched her move the piece, chewing his lip as he pondered the next viable move. "True. Personal reasons should stay personal. Meaning it's no one's business. Interesting concept…"

They were interrupted by the buzz of her cell phone against the wooden table, shaking impatiently with Seth's name in the caller ID screen.

Gina huffed a frustrated sigh and grabbed the device, stopping the buzzing that vibrated the table. She flipped it open with a twitch of her wrist and ended the call in one swift motion. Seth was going to be pissed that she had hung up on him, not giving him a chance to leave another pathetically begging voice mail. Well, he was already pissed that she was ignoring him. But she was busy and actually enjoying herself. Why would she have wanted Seth to ruin that?

"Boyfriend?" Mick asked as he maneuvered several more pieces on the chess board. He was close to declaring checkmate within a few more moves, and Gina was intrigued that it had only taken less than five minutes.

"Partner. He's clinging and trying to apologize. I'm not in the mood to talk to him after our fight yesterday." She answered as she reached to the board and moved another piece. The younger man raised a curious expression, then replaced the bishop to the same spot it was before. Apparently it wasn't supposed to be moved yet. She didn't know why it was easy to talk with him. He was flirting and somewhat egotistical and she knew he was trouble to get attached to. But he was a mystery and she was having a hard time ignoring it. "He doesn't want me to join because he likes me too much. I really have no desire to stay with a man that clings to someone like that."

He nodded in agreement and sipped his bottle of Gatorade as he stared at the chess board, frowning heavily. "Men like that are dangerous. They're usually the type that would kidnap their pray and hold them under the false sense that they're both in love. You see it with men who were severely neglected as a child and therefore cling to the first person who shows them true kindness. Also, they're the type that have a tenancy to become violent when their pray disappears. I'd be careful with him if I were you. Obsession can be deadly."

That assessment was the proof to Cooper's words about him being a prodigy. It was true to everything Gina had learned about Seth and although Mick hadn't met him, she assumed he had read the personnel files of every candidate with Cooper. Gina didn't have access to those records, but she didn't need them to know that he was right.

Seth was a good man with a bad habit of choosing the wrong woman in his life. Gina didn't want to become an unwilling participant in that.

"That was actually rather elegant."

"Oh, I know it was. I'm not some mindless soldier, mind you." He retorted with a quick smirk as he moved one final piece and the queen, rook, and king were left with no other possible moves.

"So, please tell me she's not ready to kill you yet." Simms quipped as he approached the table, flopping on the bench beside Gina with enough force to jostle the chess pieces.

Mick rolled his eyes as he made the final move on the board, taking the opposing queen with a smug grin. "Checkmate. And no, women love me."

"No, they love your accent and the fact that they can get you to sleep with them after a few drinks of scotch. That's not what I meant in this case and you know it."

Gina chuckled and shook her head at his expression. Then motioned for Cooper to join them away from the others. "Actually, this has been strangely relaxing."

"So you're thinking about accepting Coop's offer?" Simms questioned. Gina gave a slight nod and started to address him by his last name as she had been during since they met. He stopped her to clarify, "Formalities, remember? It's Prophet or Jon, your choice."

"But everyone calls him Prophet. It's some kind of name he made for himself in prison and it just stuck." Mick added.

Gina frowned at the scenario that came to mind. He did carry a look about him that suggested he had seen too much, and she wasn't necessarily surprised to hear that he had been in prison once she saw that. Although she was curious as to what he did that was severe enough to put him in a locked cell neighboring murderers and rapists. He had years of FBI experience and at one point was probably credited for it. That had to have been the only reason Fickler allowed Cooper to put him on the team.

As a show of camaraderie, she decided that calling him Prophet like everyone else was probably the best thing if they were going to work together.

Prophet seemed to read her thoughts as Cooper came to stand behind Mick. He bowed his head slightly and sighed, tapping his fingers on the table as he adverted his gaze to the wood. "Yeah… I spent a few years in California state pen for murdering a pedophile. SOB deserved it though. I got out about a year ago. The FBI decided that it wasn't justifiable and used me as an example to all other agents. If you go rouge and take matters into your own hands, the government isn't going to save you. Regardless of how much you've done to prove that you're worth it." He explained quietly, hesitantly, tone remorseful beneath the calm.

Cooper broke the tension with clapping Mick on the shoulder lightly, leaning over his shoulder to glance at the chess board. Mick jumped at the contact but calmed a moment later when he realized that it was just Cooper. The older man was impressed, smiling from ear to ear as he tightened his grip on Mick's shoulders. "Less than five minutes. That's a new record. Keep that up and you might actually be able to beat me in a real game. The next round starts in two minutes. You two go get set and I'll meet you there in a minute." He stated with a pointed look to Prophet.

Mick attempted to argue, mumbling that he would have much rather played football with an actual round ball. Prophet laughed at the comment and Cooper urged him out of the seat, shooing him to follow the older man in the group of agents converging on the field again.

Once they were out of earshot, he took Mick's previous seat and started replacing the chess pieces back into the leather box. "And he wonders why I have gray hair. Half of it is because I've been trying to keep his ass out of trouble for the last few years. He's a good kid, a hell of a lot smarter than he lets show, but he always manages to get himself into some kind of trouble. I had to sideline one guy on the other team and take his place, the same guy who tackled him twice, because they got in an argument and the other guy held a grudge. Sometimes I wonder if I don't actually work with hormonal teenagers instead of trained agents."

Gina smiled in sympathy, knowing exactly how he felt when she thought back to the days Seth did something ridiculously stupid to get himself into trouble.

Cooper finished the cleanup of his chess game and snapped the lid shut. Then folded his hands on the box and leaned forward to ask, "So, what do you think? Do you want to go back to Seth and the standard FBI murder cases? Or do you want to work on some of the more challenging and interesting cases the FBI has to offer?"

Gina fumbled with her cell phone for a few uncomfortable seconds. If Mick was right, and she was almost positive he was, then staying with Seth and the standard cases was more dangerous. She knew Seth wouldn't intentionally hurt her. But she was willing to risk it after their argument. So the best alternative was to accept Cooper's offer.

His team would have still been missing one member but none seemed to be concerned about that at the moment. They were interesting, unique, a far cry from her previous teammates. And she loved a good challenge.

A sniper still on loan from Interpol and SAS, mentally damaged to a level Gina had never seen before. A man sent to prison for a justifiable crime that was still trying to make emends for the sin. And a brilliant profiler with more secrets than the lost city of Atlantis itself.

How could she refuse?

"I'll be assigned as his partner?" She questioned with a nod towards Mick.

"You two seem to get along well. Most of the others I've tried to partner him with over the last few weeks have either quit or been fired because they threatened to kill him. You're probably one of the first I've seen that he's actually been honest to."

Gina watched the sniper kick the muddy grass beneath his sneakers. Then set her phone on the table and replied, "Okay, I'm in."

* * *

Note- Ta-da! People! Hello again!  
So, that's it for this particular one-shot. The introduction of Beth may come as a later one-shot because it takes place months after this. There's tons more I've got planned that will be placed under this story so you might want to subscribe to it. For the most part, this is pretty self explanatory. So I'll just say that I'm not done with Seth yet and the decision Gina made to leave him has consequences.  
I think that's all for now. Chapter one to the next main story will be posted as soon as it's finished. I'm still doing some research for it. It takes place in Florida, which I've only been to twice, so there's a lot more planning I have to do. And I've never been to a wedding which is a key part of the next story. Anyways, you know what to do, right? Reviews are loved and appreciated. I mean, really appreciated. I get excited when I see one in my inbox. Hint hint… A huge thanks to all who have read, reviewed, and subscribed to my stuff so far! You all are awesome!


	4. Liar It Takes One To Know One Part 1

Criminal Minds Suspect Behavior Drabble Series.

Intermission

Summary- Mick is a liar. He knows this, uses this to get what he wants and needs in life. But sometimes he needs people to keep him honest.

Rated High Teen for cursing, mentions of alcohol, mentions of child abuse, themes involving pedophilia( Not explicit even in the slightest.), and blood. Pairing lean more towards Mick/Gina at the end. But this is pre-series so they're not in the same relationship as they are in my current stories. This does have spoilers for my previous work. It mentions Rais, but also has an appearance by Liam Holmes. There's also mentions of the O'Connell family and Jenna Rawson. All of which are my own characters.

I don't own anything involving Criminal Minds Suspect Behavior. The only things I do claim are my creations. I am simply borrowing everything else for my own entertainment and practice. No one beta reads my stuff so any spelling and grammar mistakes are my own. Please don't verbally kill me for a typo.

Now, to the story!

* * *

Liar (It Takes One To Know One) Part 1

_Lies are easier than truth._

That's the excuse Mick Rawson used when he was dishonest. Realistically, it was absurd and selfish. Something he never voiced aloud because it was unnecessarily telling of his personality, and therefore his hidden insecurities. He knew some would categorize it as defensive. A way to cope with the torturous and traumatizing things he had experienced in his lifetime. But it was unavoidable because it was all he had. It was as real as the air he breathed, although physically intangible, and just as simple. And for that reason only, he clung to it.

He remembered the first lie he presented to his parents better than any other.

At the young age of six he wanted to bring a stray puppy home with him. He found it on the beach just outside his parent's home/ pub in Penarth, Wales, destroying the sand castles he and his father made earlier that morning before the older man left to take his baby sister to a pediatric appointment. Unfortunately it wasn't really a stray. But he lied because he wanted a pet like every other neighborhood kid his age. And if his mum and dad wasn't going to buy him one, he was going to find one.

"But mummy, look at him!" He exclaimed as he held the small puppy towards her, grinning from ear to ear and Welsh accent thick but small for his age. It was an English Cocker Spaniel, long white and orange fur riddled with sand from the beach he had found it on just minutes before. He knew it wasn't a stray because he had seen it with a neighbor days ago. But it was fluffy, and adorable, and seemed to like him as it barked excitedly and twisted in his small hands to lick his cheek. And the neighbor had let it roam the beach again so he thought it would have been better off with him. Mick flinched as the rough tongue left a trail of saliva on his skin and almost lost his grip on the small dog. But caught himself easily and followed his mother away from a table of customers she was serving lunch to persistently.

"I found it on the beach, alone and cold and nearly drowning. We can't just let it roam the streets. What if it drowns in the ocean?" Mick knew he could have created a better lie because the puppy was obviously not wet. Meaning it hadn't been in the water as Mick had just lied about. However, his own small black sandals and blue tee shirt with matching black shorts were soiled with sand and salt water so he hoped that would have been enough to fool her. Especially since she was busy cleaning a table and not appearing to pay him too much attention.

She turned to look at him with questioning chocolate eyes, ones that he had directly inherited from her. The pub lights were dimmed slightly and the summer afternoon sun poured through open windows to allow the smell of the nearby ocean to envelope the building. She seemed to bask in the sunlight, her hand sown yellow and ocean blue sundress brightened against a thin frame and her long dark hair shifting against her shoulders as she shook her head disapprovingly. "Mick, don't lie to me…" She started to warn sternly as she scuffled her own heeled white sandals on the flooring and turned to him.

Mick didn't heed the warning because he didn't think he had to. She had never been punishing towards him, besides confining him to 'time outs' for up to thirty minutes when he did something wrong. His father was normally the one to scold him for his missteps, so he was silently grateful his father wasn't in the building to hear him.

"Mummy! Look at him!" He interrupted and shoved the puppy towards her again, feeling it begin to wiggle out of his hands. "He's lonely."

His mother sighed heavily but never once lost her calm composure. She took the puppy from his struggling hands and placed it on the floor between them, crouching to sit on her heels as she faced her son and ran a nimble finger over the puppy's furry head. "Michael, you know this isn't your puppy to have. He belongs to the neighbor down the street. Why would you lie to me like that?" She sounded hurt, Welsh tone low and eyes burrowing into his own, and Mick felt a sudden ping of guilt at her sincere expression. The only times she ever called him by his real name, rather than the shortened version she gave when he was two years old and missing his front teeth, involved when she was worried about something.

Considering the sudden occasional absence of his father over the past several weeks and the shouting match he had heard the night before, he thought it had something to do with that. He did actually pay attention to them, even though most of the problems he had heard were related to work.

"But daddy said he was thinking about getting a puppy a few days ago…"

She looked agitated at the new excuse and didn't bother to mask it. "Michael, that's enough. Please just stop lying to me. I don't know where you picked up the idea that lying is acceptable, but I don't like it. It's not becoming of a good young man. Didn't I raise you better than that?"

Mick huffed in defeat, folding his damp arms over his chest. "Everyone else has a puppy or a cat or a hamster. Why can't I?"

An expression of sudden realization crossed the older woman's features. She looked down at the puppy, her eyes softening as she watched it fall on it's back with a thud and wag it's tail against the floor, begging to have it's stomach scratched. Then back to her son, who held the utmost appearances of a six year old about to burst into tears. She sighed once again and rose to her feet, flagging one of the other waitresses in the room. Once she gave the younger woman instructions to take the dog outside and use the payphone down the street to contact the neighbor, she lifted Mick into her arms and balanced him on her hip with a slight exhausted exhale.

Mick wrapped his thin arms around her neck, uncaring of the fact that the sand was probably ruining her dress. His plan to obtain a puppy had failed, and for a six year old, that was a monumental disappointment. It was clever for someone his age but he could see that his mother was not easily fooled. She never had been in the past. He buried his face against the warm shoulder fabric of her dress, finding comfort in the smell of the perfume she wore on a daily basis.

She carried him through the kitchen area in the back of the building, then up the set of stairs leading to their home mounted above the pub. The front door was pushed open easily enough with one free hand and she closed it gently with a tap of her foot. It was a small home, two bedrooms and one bathroom. Jenna and Mick were going to share a room once she reached two years old, but for the time being she often slept in her crib stationed in his parents bedroom opposite his own. He wasn't keen on the prospect of sharing his room with his baby sister. When she got older, he feared that would throw a fit and get the room half painted pink or some other obnoxiously _girly_color. He still held a grudge from months before, when she found his handmade stuffed red dragon that his mother made just after he was born, and proceeded to gnaw on it and tug on it's wing until the stitching ripped.

Thankfully his mother was an excellent seamstress.

She entered his bedroom swiftly and placed him on the floor, ruffling his messy dark hair affectionately before she rummaged through his dresser for a new set of clothes. He kicked off his sandals and shivered slightly at the cold wood beneath his feet. "Mick, there's a few things you need to listen to before you get angry with me." She stated as she glanced at him, expression tight in a manner that demanded his attention.

He teetered on his heels nervously, eyes scanning his proudly pristine room in an attempt to look anywhere else other than her.

"I know you don't agree, but you are not ready to care for a puppy. They take a lot of responsibility, and you're too young for that. I know quite a few other neighborhood children have pets too, but you don't have to follow them. You're more of a leader than a follower."

Mick couldn't have disagreed more. Well, with everything except being a leader. He liked control, something his father tended to label as OCD, and that set him apart from others in his age group. He was responsible, or at least much more than other children he often played football with at the local park. His room was never messy, books always stacked neatly on shelves, bed always make, toys never left on the floor, and crayons always organized by color in the box on his small desk opposite his bed. In school, he surpassed his classmates by learning material meant for someone two to four grades higher than himself. More delving into mathematics and literature because he seemed to have a talent in the subjects. Which impressed not only his parents, but led the teachers to direct him towards a program specialized for highly gifted children such as himself. And everyone in the community knew the Rawson family well so he was trusted to play on the beach whenever he pleased, as long as he told his mum or dad before hand, and always returned within an hour before lunch to shower on his own.

So yes, he was responsible. And he didn't understand why his mother was doubting him. "But I am responsible…" He murmured in protest.

She retrieved fresh cloths and placed them on his bed in a pile, then crouched in front of him. Mick resisted the urge to straighten the pile, his desire to keep everything belonging to him perfectly clean and immaculate causing him to look away from his mother. She must have seen her mistake but didn't correct it immediately. Instead she grasped his shoulders firmly, but gently, and smoothed one side of his hair to gather his attention. "You are responsible, and brilliant, and kind, just like your father. But you are simply too young for such a responsibility as a puppy. You can be angry with me and I'll understand. Just know that I'm doing this to protect you because I love you."

Mick still didn't understand. But he couldn't bring himself to be angry at her any longer. So he wrapped his arms around her neck again, nearly causing her to lose her balance on her heels, and apologized with every breath he could take.

Yes, he lied. And yes, he wanted that puppy. His mother was more important though because she was his best friend. So he never lied to her again. She was more than the puppy he tried to steal, the one that often sung him to sleep or played his favorite songs on the piano in the pub, who read to him every night and fixed his favorite dragon when Jenna ripped it, and he wouldn't have risked changing that for the world.

* * *

Years later, when he was fifteen, Mick thought that he perfected the _art_ of lying. Lillian and William O'Connell were not impressed though.

It was an early fall night in London. The traffic on the streets was loud and rambunctious with the day drawing to a close. People were rushing to get home before sun-down, so they provided easy camouflage.

Liam Holmes and Mick Rawson set up a system over their years on the streets. They pick pocketed people when they were younger, stealing money for food and the occasional piece of jewelry to pawn off for a trade of temporary shelter during the winters. But they had a home, somewhere they could safely return to every day, so they didn't _have _to steal from people anymore.

Some habits were just too damned hard to break.

It was like a game, something Mick couldn't refuse because it was challenging. The people deserved it in some way or another. Years with Liam and no money and abusive foster parents that forced them to retire to the streets to remain safe had seen to that. Rich men and women in expensive suits were often clueless as to his slim hand stealing their wallets. They had money to lose and not care about anyways, so those were who he and Liam tried to target. Most of the time it went as according to plan.

Liam distracted them. Mick stole their wallets as he walked past. It was simplistic, really, and the two fell into a sort of rhythm over time. If anyone realized that they had been pick pocketed, they tended to look towards Liam. Which, if all carried as planned, meant that Liam had a three second window to run like hell in the opposite direction before a local police officer was flagged down. They met again to dispose of evidence in nearby garbage cans and hide the stole money, cash only, in their socks or shoes.

They had been caught a few times though. But that was were Mick's silver tongue worked its magic. Neither were ever actually arrested after he explained that he and his brother found the wallets on the ground near a trash can and were trying to find the owners. It was a perfect lie because the officers couldn't argue. They had no physical evidence tying them to the accusation of theft and the only possible way they could have arrested them would have been to launch an investigation. Which meant they would have had to gone to the local street cameras and try to find them in the mess of people.

That would have been a waste of time and money, just to arrest two orphaned teenagers who weren't physically hurting anyone and more often than not only stole the equivalent of less than two hundred dollars.

But their latest score wasn't money or jewelry. And that was their mistake.

"I told ya not to drink more than a few sips." Liam chided, Scottish bravado thick and slurred from his own empty bottle of stolen alcohol. He kept one long arm wrapped behind his brother, hooking a finger into the loop on the back of tattered jeans. The other used the passing walls of nearby buildings as leverage to keep his unsteady feet straight on the pavement. He was trying to get himself and Mick to the O'Connell residence just two more blocks from their position. The operative word being _trying_.

Mick could feel his harsh blue eyes on him, analyzing and judging. It wasn't necessarily his fault. Okay, so realistically it probably was. He couldn't blame Liam for drinking an entire bottle of aged beer they had lifted from a market a few blocks away. He was going to be sixteen in a few months and although the legal drinking age in Britain was eighteen, he didn't see a problem in starting early. Liam, who had found alcohol months before and kept it a secret from everyone else but Mick because he was only seventeen by only a month and therefore still technically illegal, didn't exactly try to stop him either.

His head felt wonderful and foggy and somehow light to balance it all. For a few moments he wondered if that was what the junkie foster fathers they had been placed with felt like during a high. Or there was something more to the alcohol. Several previous foster brothers his age or older had already turned to drugs, but he and Liam were never keen on that idea. So he didn't know what to expect, really, because it was his first time with alcohol. And while his head felt light and he seemed to find his tongue loose as he rambled things that randomly popped into his head like his brain-to-mouth filter ceased functioning, his stomach hurt. It burned, actually, much like his throat. Perhaps he just wasn't accustomed to it yet…

Yes, he was drunk. Worse than Liam, certainly. But he still fought to keep himself upright. He didn't want to lean against his brother for support, smelling the musty sweat through the older teen's tee shirt and favored jacket. There was no way around it when he realized that he couldn't even walk a straight line.

Liam was considerably larger than himself, years of being the lead on the school's football team brought strong muscles and a posture that contradicted his normally jovial attitude. Scottish ancestry was strong in his faintly stubble features. His brown-orange hair was longer than Mick's, shaggy and messy, and Mick found that funny somehow. He knew that Liam had an excuse for keeping his hair long enough to get into his eyes. The scar he was given by their last foster parent two years ago, before the O'Connell saved them, was still an ugly pale pink just above his right eye and disappeared into his hairline.

Having his skull cracked after the bastard repeatedly slammed his face into a brick wall for accidentally breaking the only television the older man owned had left a haunting reminder.

The younger teen looked up at his brother through squinted eyes and attempted to push himself away. "I didn't drink more than a few." He lied easily, tongue thick in unison with his slurred Welsh accent. It was a pointless lie and he knew it. But he couldn't find motivation to care. So he stumbled in time with his brother's foot steps, trying to keep his own shaky feet beneath him. "There was something else in that stuff."

Liam's expression curled into amusement as he shook his head. "No, ya just drank too much. It's aged, therefore stronger than normal. If ya can suck down that shit and not get sick for the next week, ya can drink almost anything in the future."

Mick failed to see the logic in that. "Rubbish." He breathed, pushing himself away from Liam adamantly.

They stopped when Mick stumbled away, thankfully the street was scarce of people to see them, and Liam released his steady hold on him. He cocked an eyebrow and retorted, "What? Ya feel like rubbish or ya think I'm lyin'?" He paused to observe the pastel color on his brother's clean shaven features, the slight gray and green tinge beneath it all, and frowned. "If ya puke, I'm just gonna laugh."

Mick narrowed his own eyes and jabbed a finger in the other man's face. "You're an ass." He scowled. Truth be told, he did feel queasy. His stomach rolled in time with his vision and he wanted nothing more than to crawl into a hole and sleep for eternity. But it was a challenge, to see if he could handle the alcohol without getting sick. And he sure as hell wasn't going to let Liam win.

Liam chuckled and swatted the hand away from his face. Then clasped the other man around the shoulders and started to direct him towards the end of the street again. "I know, ya hate me. But you'll thank me for this in the future."

"I doubt that."

Mick trusted Liam, knew he would never be in any danger around him, so his words were thought to be the alcohol still pickling his brain rather than the truth itself. He fell in the same rhythmic steps as before within a few moments, leaning against his brother for stability. The thought of his foster parents and sisters crossed his mind, as did the remembrance of the last time Liam showed up at the home hours after curfew, drunk as hell and smelling like he had finished a package of cigarettes in record time. Lillian and William were furious, threatening to throw him out of the house if it happened again. Jenna and Cassie were smart enough to hide in their bedroom during loud argument. And Mick, well he always found that the roof was the farthest from people he could ever get to without leaving the property. He just hoped they didn't keep their threat and kick them out of the house for this.

"They're gonna be pissed." He stated suddenly, causing Liam to glance at him with a curious expression.

"Probably."

That was it? They were less than five minutes from the house, almost wasted after illegally consuming two stolen bottles of aged beer between them both, which was going to get them into serious trouble by their foster parents, and all he had to say about it was probably. No, that didn't sit well with him. He gave his brother an incredulous glare, trying to wrap his mind around what he assumed his brother was not admitting.

Mick was a talented liar, he learned from the best, but he could always see when Liam wasn't being truthful. From one liar to another, he could read the older man like an open book. And vise versa, of course. It was one of the many reasons why they were such good friends. How they could stand each other day after day and enjoy each others company. Liam wasn't just the big brother Mick never had, he was the only person who didn't truly ever fall for his lies. The closest person before the Scotsman was his mother. But he didn't prefer to talk about her if he had the choice.

"Why'd we really do this? Steal the beer and drink it all, I mean. Not that I'm complaining…"

Liam's steps faltered for a second, hardly noticeable in Mick's drunken state. He regained himself quickly and feigned a smirk. "It's part of the game. Don't tell me ya didn't enjoy the rush, Mickey."

That was a lie. Well, perhaps not entirely. Mick could hear some sincerity, but it was forced. Everything about the past few hours had been forced. Almost as if he were trying to hard to accomplish his goal. Normally Liam had more swagger. So what was the true reason behind their actions?

"Fiona break up with you or something?" He blurted the first plausible explanation that came to mind.

Fiona Martin was Liam's girlfriend, had been since he was fifteen, and the two were thought to be in love. She and her parents moved from Ireland to London when she was twelve, but she still carried a thick Irish accent that rivaled Liam's Scottish tone, and had most other men in the school tripping over their own feet just to look at her. Liam was lucky to have someone like her, someone to keep him in line because Mick was too impulsive to keep his own head above water most of the time.

It was kind of cute, actually, but something Mick didn't quite understand. Sure, he had girlfriends. Too many to count on both hands, actually. None of them stayed very long though, claiming that he was too much of an _arrogant donkey with the mentality of a wild animal_. He didn't try to make them stay anyways. There was one girl he fancied more than them, someone he and Liam briefly lived with years ago for a few days in another home, but he doubted she even knew he existed. She was the cheerleader type, beautiful and smart and completely out of his league. That's a story for another time though.

Liam stopped abruptly and jerked his head towards his brother, expression contorted in shock. "Of course not. What the bloody hell gave that idea?"

Mick shrugged and replied, "It's makin' ya slip." He slurred as he brought one hand to rub at his eyes, hating the way they felt swollen.

The Scotsman knit his brow together and pushed him forward roughly, forcing him to go forward until he almost lost his footing and had to use the nearby brick wall for leverage. "I'm not slippin'. You're just too good at reading between the lines. If ya would put as much effort into school work and finding a suitable girlfriend as ya do in lyin' your ass off and reading people, ya might get somewhere in life."

"So she didn't break up with you? But you did this for another reason then. Some kind of anniversary…"

Mick couldn't finish the trail of thoughts verbally when Liam snatched him by the back of his jacket collar, yanking him backwards until he was fighting to remain standing and looking up at the older man looming over him. Analyzing Liam was never a good idea. The first time he did it, he had a dirty sock literally shoved in his mouth. On the second time, when he verbalized Liam's reasoning behind his self sacrificing behavior as a way to punish himself for whatever tragedy he watched befall his parents, and received a black eye for his troubles, he learned that using the psychology courses he was taking in school as a way to better understand those around him was not always appreciated.

He flinched, trying to distance himself on instinct alone, when his feet slid out from under him. Landing on the hard stone sidewalk with a surprised yelp, he gaped at his brother with a shocked expression. His hands were stinging beneath the fingerless gloves and his ass hurt from the impact with the stone. Using his hands in an attempt to break his fall was not his intention. When he looked down at the red tone of his skin, small pieces of the skin scraped and peeling painfully, he regretted opening his mouth to begin with.

"Don't." Liam seethed, angry and somewhat dangerous as he loomed over the younger man. "Don't ya dare use that psychology shit on me."

Mick felt himself sink into the ground further, wishing the stone would swallow him alive for being such an idiot. Of course it was an anniversary. He blamed the forgetfulness, despite his normal photographic memory, on the fact that he could hardly see straight and his head was starting to throb mercilessly.

Liam lost his parents on September sixth, at the young age of seven. He was never clear as to how they passed away and Mick never pressed for an answer purely out of understanding. If someone were to ask Mick to talk about his family in Wales, he would have lied and told them the most imaginary story that portrayed them as the perfect people. That was actually lying to himself though. Whatever happened to Liam's parents was tragic, kept the Scotsman awake at night during thunderstorms, and he had been a witness. So Mick could understand, in the few epiphany seconds not deluded with the alcohol roaring through his system, that the reason behind getting wasted and introducing his brother to alcohol was because he needed a drinking buddy. Someone that would have understood what the significance of the day meant without needing to be told.

Someone to tell him that it was alright.

"It's alright." Mick mumbled with an exhale, holding the other man's gaze with some effort. "I'm sorry, mate. Should have realized it sooner."

Liam sighed after a few tense seconds. Then ran his hand through his hair, pulling the strands back and away from his face smoothly. He may have been more experienced than Mick when it came to creating a mask of lies to hide behind, but Mick knew how to see past it. Something about Mick's words seemed to crack the shell, breaking the tension between them as if it were a tangible thing. Liam scrubbed his eyes tiredly before offering his hand to Mick. He pulled the younger man back to his feet and avoided eye contact. "Thanks, lad." He muttered sincerely.

Sometimes being a liar had it's advantages. Especially when it meant that he could read what his brother didn't have the courage to say.


	5. Liar It Takes One To Know One Part 2

Criminal Minds Suspect Behavior Drabble Series.

Intermission

Summary- Mick is a liar. He knows this, uses this to get what he wants and needs in life. But sometimes he needs people to keep him honest.

Rated High Teen for cursing, mentions of alcohol, mentions of child abuse, themes involving pedophilia( Not explicit even in the slightest.), and blood. Pairing lean more towards Mick/Gina at the end. But this is pre-series so they're not in the same relationship as they are in my current stories. This does have spoilers for my previous work. It mentions Rais, but also has an appearance by Liam Holmes. There's also mentions of the O'Connell family and Jenna Rawson. All of which are my own characters.

I don't own anything involving Criminal Minds Suspect Behavior. The only things I do claim are my creations. I am simply borrowing everything else for my own entertainment and practice. No one beta reads my stuff so any spelling and grammar mistakes are my own. Please don't verbally kill me for a typo.

Now, to the story!

* * *

Liar (It Takes One To Know One) Part 2

When Mick was twenty years old, serving in Iraq for the British SAS as their best sniper before the hell they had endured at the hands of Rais, Liam told him that the lies he created were going to be the death of him someday. At the time, he was young and impulsive and didn't believe a word of that. Arrogance and pride won over common sense.

It wasn't until he started working for Cooper's new FBI Red Cell team years later that he realized just how true Liam's words had been.

Their cases were far more challenging than what he solved in Interpol. But he appreciated the complicity that kept his mind busy. It helped him focus and gave him an excuse for the sleepless nights he knew no one believed were truly from one-night-stands. Unfortunately a large majority only added to the nightmares that plagued him. (What he knew but didn't want to admit was part of untreated PTSD because he lied to get back into SAS after the mess in Iraq.) As if his subconscious was putting the pieces together without him. Luckily for him, that seemed to be the case in most situations and led to the arrest of the unsubs within a few days.

For the most part, he was still becoming accustomed to the United States and his new teammates. They were only a four man team until Cooper decided which person, out of the dozens he had asked Mick to profile with him, he valued as the best asset. He wasn't going to complain about the small group though. After what happened to his first team in Iraq, he found it difficult to work with others. Cooper knew that, of course, which was why he placed Mick with Gina LaSalle as partners. They were still a team and worked as such. But Gina, as Mick suspected, was there for more than just to help them close cases.

He had to admit that she was…nice. There was no doubt that she was physically attractive and personality wise, she was fun to talk to because she didn't put up with his shit. She was strong willed but kind. The type of person to look at a liar and call them out to their face. And he respected that as something rare among other women he had been with over his life. She was challenge, but played the game of harmless flirting with him well, as if they had been doing it forever. It was easy and fun and somewhat irresistible. If they weren't teammates and he wasn't under such a heavy microscope from the FBI because he wasn't technically a US citizen, he would have asked her out to dinner for a date.

Although, Mick was sure she would have seen past his pickup lines rather easily.

He made a mental note to try once their latest case was finally over and they were back in DC.

It was his first serial pedophile case in the US, which was something he didn't _exactly _want to handle after looking at the gory crime scene photos. He had worked a few in Interpol, but nothing quite like this.

They traveled to Minnesota on the first Monday of October. Seven bodies were found in the upper and lower sections of Red Lake, severely abused in more than just physical injuries. Age ranged between ten and twelve, male, physical appearances were similar in the way of bright green or blue eyes and dark hair that was trimmed before they were disposed of, thin but not severely so, and all disappeared over the course of eight months while on camping trips in the nearby forest lands with their single fathers. They were stripped of clothing when they were found, floating near the shore with a chain and a small but heavy anchor keeping them barely above the surface. Hypothermia, blood loss from the multiple stab wounds to the arms and torso, starvation caused by lack of food or water for more than two days, and severe trauma to several other places he didn't want to think about mixed with the fact that they had been nearly dead when they were put in the water.

Mick had seen his fair share of torture victims; as hard as it was to swallow, he had been on the other end of a sick bastard's hand once before. So he knew how to profile someone like that. He knew the unsub was probably a male himself, between thirty five and forty five, and probably had a record of violence and pedophilia. It was someone with skill in navigating the terrain of the forests and extensive knowledge of the lands so he wouldn't have been caught by park services. He would have needed a way to get to the victims, luring them away from their fathers long enough to abduct them. Then a place to hold them until he was finished, typically somewhere close to the dump-site but secluded enough that it didn't stand out on a map. Single, incapable of remorse, and something about the physical appearance of the unsubs held a personal connection. Considering it started eight months ago, that was where Penelope Garcia started as far as records.

Three days were spent chasing leads and data, checking crime scenes for anything they may have missed, and perfecting their profile of the unsub well enough for Penelope to finally use as a filter for the records.

During that time, Mick learned a few new things about Prophet. The older man hadn't _directly _said it, but he read between the lines easily enough. He had a damn good reason for hating the unsub who did something like this. Well, all pedophiles in general. It wasn't because he was hurt by one as a child. No, it was because he had a family at one point. A wife and son that he loved more than life itself. He was working a case in California, where he and his family lived in Los Angeles, and found the unsub that the FBI had been trying to catch for the past fifteen years. But didn't have proof to arrest him yet. So he threatened the guy, who retaliated by abducting his son. After his son was found weeks later, butchered in the same manner as the past victims, Prophet tracked him down and beat him to death with his own hands. Then spent six years in the state prison for what the FBI called _voluntary manslaughter_.

Mick was still studying the definitions of the US laws, but he was fairly certain that was a bullshit excuse just to punish him for ruining their operation.

It didn't take long to find their unsub after they narrowed the suspect pool. Ted Carver was forty two years old, living on his father's land between the north and south region of the lake just north of Ponemah in the more secluded area, with a history of violence towards his youngest son. Who held a strong resemblance to the victims. In 2002 his son, age twelve, went to the local police and accused his father of some horribly heinous things. The police searched his home through the investigation and found material that was used to label him as a pedophile. His son was removed from his care and given to his ex-wife in Michigan, and the judge refused joint custody because he was labeled a pedophile. The local elementary school he worked for fired him and he was forced to move from the small town of Ponemah to his father's cabin in the forest. He had no job or money and therefore no records from the time of his conviction. Although he never stepped foot in a jail under an agreement signed by the judge, a parole officer was assigned to keep an eye on him.

In some way, what Carver was doing was essentially proving what everyone else thought. He must have wanted to show them that he wasn't a monster and nothing his son claimed was true. That he was set up by his ex-wife and son so they could live happily ever after in her mansion in Michigan. But in order to portray what a true monster looked like, he started targeting young boys who looked like his son. As if telling them all that they were wrong to convict him because _this_ is what a true monster looks like. It was a twisted logic that had everyone on the team somewhat baffled.

The parole officer was declared missing eight months ago, the same month the first body surfaced on the lake. Ted Carver was not seen or heard from since a day before. Because he was a convicted criminal, the US Marshals were involved in the investigation. Which was what took so long for Penelope to get the information.

Once they had a name and history, the trouble became how to catch the unsub. Preferably before the next victim was ready to be disposed of. The span of lake encompassing the previous dump-site was surrounded with local police, both on land and water. State police offered their assistance in combing the surrounding areas for signs of the unsub or victim. With the dump-site compromised, Carver would have needed a new area to dispose of the body. If he were to stay with his MO, then the next dump-site was most likely the wooded area west of Ponemah.

That was a lot of ground to cover in one night though.

The sun had set hours before and took any comfort of warmth with it. Fall air was crisp, held a certain smell of lake water that Mick found captivating. Leaves crunched beneath his boots, the occasional call of a wild animal in the distance echoed around him, and the glow of moonlight through the rustling canopy above aided them in their search.

Teams had been set by Cooper hours before, each set of two ordered to small section of forest. As the night carried on they started to spread further across the land, using the highway as a reference point. Prophet and Cooper each had their own teams while Gina and Mick worked together. Cooper's excuse for not separating them was something along the lines of, _Someone has to make sure you don't get yourself killed. I trust her more than any of these other officers._

Mick smirked at the remembrance, using his free hand to hold a branch out of the hiking path for Gina. His opposite hand used his torch to illuminate the area again. He knew the chances of finding the unsub in such conditions were slim. But it was the best lead they had and time was running out for their victim.

"What are you smirking about?" Gina asked as she resumed her even pace beside him, sweeping her own torch over his face for a moment. She seemed to shiver slightly at the cold breeze, her skin a faint flush due to exhaustion and temperature, and Mick had the strange overwhelming desire to offer his own thick leather jacket out of courtesy.

"Just how lovely you look this fine evening, darling." He replied flirtingly, offering a toothy grin that he found caused her to roll her eyes and fight back a smile of her own on previous occasions. That may have been a lie, but it was good one. Well, maybe not a complete lie. She, in his opinion, did look stunning in light jeans smeared with mud and foliage and a buttoned midnight blue wool jacket, long blond hair pulled into a tight pony-tail that bounced ever so slightly with every step she took.

As if on cue, Gina rolled her eyes and fought to hide a smile in amusement. "Ever heard of subtlety?"

"It's overrated." He retorted.

"Only for you?"

"We've only been partners for almost two months and you already know me so well. I don't know whether to be impressed or slightly frightened."

Gina laughed at that, a sound Mick couldn't get enough of, and shook her head with a glare towards him. "You are the strangest man I have ever met."

Mick climbed over a fallen tree trunk and landed on the other side with a thud, then spun and offered his fingerless gloved hands to make sure she didn't fall when she followed. She accepted without a second of hesitation, grasping his hands tightly in her soft cloth and smaller ones. "That's what makes me loveable, admit it."

She scanned the area once more before turning the torch to blind him. "You're about as _loveable_ as a rabid dog."

He feigned a frown, childish and immature but received the desired laugh nonetheless, and gripped his chest over his heart. "Ow, you slaughter me. I'm wounded, darling." He slid on the heels of his boots, flailing his torch occupied hand in a dramatic portrayal of falling backwards as if he had been shot.

Gina rolled her eyes but laughed regardless, then grasped the front of his leather jacket by a pocket and forced him to straighten. "That was really mature." She quipped, forcing him to start walking again. "You took drama classes in school, didn't you?"

"It's called theater. And no, I didn't. I did date an actress once. She was studying to play Juliet in _Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet _at a community center for orphaned children and I helped her study. The benefits were fun…" He started to lie, but couldn't continue when she shoved him sideways roughly with a disgusted scowl.

"I really don't need to hear details of your one night stands. Actually, I could live my entire life without knowing what you do in the bedroom and be perfectly happy."

Mick wagged his eyebrows as if to ask if she was willing to bet on that. Lying to her hadn't been easy, and he wasn't entirely sure as to why either. He did study Shakespearean plays when he was younger, but only because he was curious. Acting in one of the plays wasn't his role. All he did was memorize his favorites because they were interesting.

His response died on his tongue at the sudden muffle of a distant voice. He froze, straining his ears to listen for any discernible words. Male, older than himself by more than ten years, panicked and desperate, followed by the distinct slam of metal against metal. Or rather, a car door of an old truck. All of the search vehicles were parked along the sides of the roads and the highway, and none were reported near Mick and Gina's search area.

Meaning it had to be Carver.

Judging by Gina's stiff posture and wide-eyed expression as she silently drew her gun from the holster on her hip, she recognized the same thing. She kept her torch pointed downwards to remain hidden, allowing the natural glow of the moon above to light their way.

Mick copied her movements without a word, crossing his wrists to use the torch in unison with his gun pointed at the ground. He was exceptional with firearms, something his parents probably wouldn't have been proud of if they were alive to comment, so he placed himself in front of her without realizing it. Training and instinct always placed him to the front, making sure he was able to protect those behind him in a moment's notice. He knew Gina was more than capable of handling her own self in a shootout or hand-to-hand situation. But something in the back of his mind wouldn't allow him to sit by and watch her risk her life in that manner.

They were near the edge of the river. The smell of moisture in the air and the distant sound of running water splashing against rocks gave Mick an idea as to their exact position. How did the unsub get into the forest and past the officers with a vehicle? Mick could only assume he used an old dirt road not marked on the maps. That would have been his kind of luck, anyways.

With a quick nod to Gina as he took lead, silently ordering her to stay a few steps behind for safety. He moved as quietly as possible, but set a quick pace through the foliage that Gina followed easily. The branches whipped across his face, boots brunching the ground below, and in the near silence of night, everything seemed too loud. He focused on the voice trailing in the distance, listening for key words too muffled by the forest to hear.

It was less than two minutes until they found the edge of trees masking their unsub. Mick stopped abruptly and jabbed a finger towards a large oak opposite the one he had pressed himself against for cover. When Gina pressed herself against the wood, giving him a another nod in acknowledgement that he would approach the unsub and announce FBI first, he drew a steady and calming breath to ready himself. The unsub wasn't known for guns, only a hunting knife used to butcher his victims, so it should have been easy to apprehend him. Gina and himself were talented marksmen, although he preferred his sniper rifle from a distance, meaning they shouldn't have been in any immediate danger.

What should have been and what was true didn't always match.

On the silent count of three, he abandoned his cover with his gun and torch raised. _FBI_ slipped past his lips in a shout that echoed over the seemingly empty clearing. Gina glided beside him in a muted motion, gun and torch scanning the area for signs of life. He felt himself frown heavily at the lack of people. There was a brown pickup truck, old and rusted with its driver door left open and the dimmed interior lights still pouring over the cabin. But the area was vacant of people. Which didn't make sense because Mick knew what he heard. Hell, Gina heard it too. So where was the unsub?

He shared a baffled expression with Gina, knitting his brow in confusion. Then motioned for her to take the back end of the truck while he took the front. The hood was still warm through his gloves, and judging by the fact that the keys were still in the ignition, they just missed him. He kept his eyes bouncing between the area in front of him and Gina's torch light feet away. It was risky, and if he was on an assignment in the Middle East for SAS, not staying focused would have gotten him killed. But this wasn't an SAS assignment. Or even as dangerous as Interpol operations. It was an FBI Red Cell case, meaning it shouldn't have been as deadly as other ventures he had been on. Besides, Gina was technically the new recruit and therefore still had a lot to learn about how to apprehend a suspect such as Carver.

She paused as she peered into the open bed of the truck, and Mick knew by her sudden frantic expression that she found something promising. The torch was clamped between her teeth as she climbed on the bumper, bending over the lip of the truck to pull what sounded like a tarp away from a prone small figure. She glanced at Mick with a slight relieved smile as she confirmed that the victim was still alive, one that Mick couldn't bring himself to mimic. If the child was alive, then the unsub was still close by. They had interrupted his procedures and he was undoubtedly pissed at that. Aside from that immediate threat, the child was probably in no condition to be moved without a proper medic present. As Gina dug in her jacket pocket for her radio given by Cooper at the beginning of the search to call in their position for the ambulance on call, he refocused on the more pressing threat.

Mick rounded the hood of the car a moment later, expecting the unsub to be hiding behind the opposite side of the car. He knew that was absurd and ridiculous because the unsub wasn't _stupid. _But the faint rustle of leaves mere feet from the vehicle, over Gina's impatient tone towards Cooper, suggested otherwise. It wasn't on the ground and that was what distracted Mick. Leaves had been crunched, along with bark that left him to assume the unsub was hiding near one of the trees.

Or rather, _in_ one of the trees.

By the time realization dawned, it was too late. He had just directed his torch and gun to the nearest and tallest tree when the unsub lunged out of the canopy above. In the length of a breath he was tackled backwards, gravity pulling both men down in a rush of stunned confusion and adrenaline. Mick felt the back of his head snap against the hood of the truck, hard enough to break skin and diminish his focus on reality for a few agonizingly long moments. He laid on the ground, propped on his aching side that had also collided with the truck, and attempted to pull air into his lungs.

Gina's voice was shouting around him, ordering the unsub to stop or she would shoot him. Mick recognized the panic and fear in her tone and used it to grasp reality again. He forced a deep breath that burned in his chest and pushed himself onto his stomach, using his shaky hands to climb on his feet with the assistance of the truck. His torch and gun had been knocked out of his hands and in his daze, he couldn't find them on the leaf littered ground. But he always had a backup weapon in his boot. He drew the combat knife from the sheath as he leaned against the truck for leverage.

Not his preferred weapon of self defense, but he was skilled enough to disable his opponent in no more than five swift moves.

The unsub was in front of him, hunting knife already drawn and brandished before him dangerously. Okay, so perhaps he _did_ underestimate the unsub. He was bulky and large, which contradicted the idea that he could have gotten into the tree canopy above without falling to his death before hand. Scratches on his hands and face were seeping blood, leaves and twigs poking out of his disheveled blond hair and worn denim attire. Mud from the river painted his boots and bottom jean cuffs. A furious, although slightly pained, expression mounted on thick bearded features. The knife in his right hand was shaky and nervous, and in the glimmer of moonlight Mick could have sworn it looked red.

Blood. From the victims? Or the wound in Mick's lower left abdomen that leaked hot blood down his skin, saturating his shirt and jacket and the rim of his jeans with the passing seconds? It could have been both. But he didn't have time to contemplate or even acknowledge that he was injured. The man posed a threat to Gina and himself. That threat had to be neutralized. For Gina's safety.

He ignored Gina's frantic tone and pushed himself to straighten, flipping his knife so the blade could have easily been withdrawn from the unsub's body if needed, the blade itself pointed outwards. The knife had only been used to end a life once in self defense. And he wasn't planning to add another to that record. But staring at the unsub, using the adrenaline coursing through his veins as a method of control, he realized that he probably didn't have a choice.

Carver lunged first, brandishing his own knife in an attempt to catch Mick in the abdomen again.

It only took five moves after that.

Mick dodged the first attack easily, counting his steps precisely as Liam and Cooper had taught him. His counter attack was a quick jab of his knife to Carver's right wrist, sliding the metal through cloth and skin until it hit the hilt before he pulled it back. Carver screamed in pain and dropped the knife. Then used his free hand to draw a heavy fist towards Mick's face. Mick dodged that in an instant, maintaining a balance on his toes that he didn't think was possible because his head was throbbing mercilessly. He twisted around the other man and jammed his knife in the attaching shoulder blade from behind. With both hands rendered immobile, Carver attempted to kick and turn in unison to move Mick away from him. The second the limb came within arms reach of Mick's knee, the sniper disabled it with the knife to the side of the kneecap and retracted.

Physically, Carver was immobile. He was on his knees, panting and cursing and trying to find his footing again. But he was still a threat. So Mick acted on what instinct and training taught him alone.

He flipped the knife forward rather than the backward position he had been using and slammed his knee into the other man's back. The force sent the older man to the ground with a pained groan. But Mick ignored it to slide the knife between the ground and Carver's throat.

"Mick! Stop! He's down!" Gina's scream seemed to break him out of his haze, brought some form of sense to his defensive thoughts. She trained her gun at Carver's head in warning, staring at him with shocked wide eyes. It was a pleading look, begging him not to kill the other man. But Carver deserved it for what he did. Gina would never understand that. No one ever could. "Mick, please, stop. It's over. Cooper and Prophet and the ambulance are less than two minutes out."

He looked down at Carver, at the handle of the bloody knife inches from ending another life, and withdrew. Surrender was never in his nature. Over the years, it was something Cooper had been trying to teach him. For the sake of his own well-being. Gina was able to convince some rational part of his mind that surrender was the best option in this case though.

How the hell did he become such a bloody push-over when it came to her?

Gina took over as he pulled himself off of Carver, forcefully securing his arms behind his back and snapping the handcuffs around his wrists with no regard for the bleeding wounds. Once she was satisfied that he wasn't gong to run, she turned to Mick. "Nothing's broken, right? That was a pretty heavy tackle…" She trailed off suddenly and dropped to her knees beside him, using her torch to scan his heaving chest.

Mick, who was laying sprawled on the ground with his free hand pressed into his jacket on his lower left abdomen to try to mask the blood staining his fingers, cracked one eye open to look at her. He wanted to lie because he didn't want to frighten her. But the truth was that he didn't know. Taking stock of the physical injuries was difficult because everything was sore. His head was throbbing in time with his heartbeat, his ribs and abdomen burned with every breath, and he was fairly certain blood loss was going to become a problem within the next few minutes.

Gina seemed to find the profusely bleeding wound before he could gather enough air to respond. The torch was balanced between her shoulder and neck, allowing her use of her own hands to shove his away from his jacket roughly. She muttered a curse his brain didn't quite understand. Then one hand was on his cheek, her thumb rubbed quick circles in the faint scruff, voice urging him to talk to her. He didn't want to _talk_. All he wanted was to disappear. Her other hand found its way to the wound, to the handkerchief he carried in his jacket pocket along with dozens of other small things he may have needed in a day, and pressed the cloth as hard as she could against it.

He bucked with a strangled hiss and attempted to push himself away, but couldn't find the stamina to do so. Adrenaline was starting to ebb away as fast as it came, and the understanding of pain and injury followed like a speeding bullet. He forced himself to relax when Gina made no indication of removing the agonizing pressure from his abdomen. She was the 'medic' on the team. Sure, he had basic first aid training in the academy and SAS. He knew how to patch a bullet wound and administer an IV if necessary. But he couldn't do it on himself. So he had to trust Gina, and oddly enough, that was easy.

"They're almost here." Gina stated with a glance at Carver behind her.

Mick drew in several more unsteady breaths and offered her a toothy grin to mask his agony. "I'm fine, darling. Nothing but a scratch…"

"Don't lie to me." She snapped, digging the cloth into the wound harder as blood swelled between her fingers. "Don't you _ever _lie to me about an injury like this. You're just lying to yourself too and that's ridiculous."

Yes, he was lying to himself. And to her. But it was better than the reality of bleeding to death. He'd been there before and had no desire to admit it again. Because lies weren't always meant to fool his friends and family and teammates. Sometimes they were meant to keep his sanity too.

Mick only nodded in acceptance, smirking at the first thought that came to mind. "You're tryin' to make an honest man out of me, aren't ya Agent LaSalle." He muttered as his eyes slid shut, Welsh-English accent thicker as exhaustion pulled at his ability to stay awake.

Gina's hand on his face tightened slightly, forcing him to look at her through narrow eyes. "Someone has to. Otherwise you'd probably let yourself die from a severe wound, thinking that it's nothing and you could probably stitch it yourself."

Mick chuckled at the smart-assed retort, although he instantly regretted it, and responded wearily, "Well, for that, I'm entirely in your dept."

No, that wasn't a lie either. He knew exactly why Cooper wanted her to be paired with him as a partner. As diminishing to his pride as the idea of being incapable of saving his own ass and keeping himself out of trouble was, he was grateful that Gina was there. Because, in the long run of things as time passed, he learned that she was always going to be there. And he couldn't imagine his life without her.

* * *

Note- Ta-da! People! Hi people! I'm back with another one-shot! There's not much else I can say about this. I had this idea stuck in my head for a while. Mostly because I wanted to write Liam again and see how Mick's mother would look actually written down. So basically, this was just my curiosity and imagination fueling the plot bunnies. Evil little distracting bastards… Lol. Anyways, I hope you all enjoyed it. Leave a review if you can. I love feedback. Hint… Thanks to all who have read, reviewed, and subscribed to my work so far!


	6. Self Destruct

Criminal Minds Suspect Behavior Drabble series.

Intermission

Self Destruct

Summary- Jenna Rawson knows her brothers well. Or so she thought. She didn't think Mick would ever fall to pieces and Liam would try to take his own life.

Rated High Teen, almost Mature, for subject matter. There are mentions of child abuse, torture, alcohol, heroin abuse, and suicide. I've tried to keep all potentially gory and disturbing matters low as far as descriptions. There are no real pairings in this one. Spoilers for my previous work, mainly Walk Away From The Sun, so you might want to read that if you haven't. A quick warning, this is a bit darker than my others. The thought has been stuck in my head for the past few weeks and even though I could do more with it, it's going to be left as just a single piece for now. I probably will expand on it at some point.

I don't own anything involving Criminal Minds Suspect Behavior. The only things I do own are my creations. Such as Jenna Rawson's personality, Liam Holmes, Fiona Martin, Cassie O'Connell and her parents, and so on. Everything else is simply being borrowed for my own entertainment and practice. No one beta reads my stuff so any spelling and grammar mistakes are my own. Please don't verbally kill me for a typo.

Now, to the story!

* * *

_Self Destruct_

In the midst of panic, people jump to conclusions.

It's a subconscious paradox of sorts, one that most sensible people would deny to maintain their own reputations. They don't often realize that they have lied or thought the worst until the truth is presented in front of them. Most times, the truth is better than the exaggeration. Other times, as much as Jenna Rawson didn't want to ponder it, it was so much worse than anything she could have considered.

It was a cold early December night in 2004 when she was roused from her slumber by a panicked and muffled voice. She was in Cassie's bedroom, sleeping on the makeshift bed, or rather the small blue fabric futon couch, opposite her foster sister's plush green quilted bed. The darkness cascading through the room was temporarily broken by a glow of artificial light beneath the crevice of the white custom floral painted door pushed to a close. She blinked away sleep after a few seconds and strained to listen through the insolated walls surrounding her. There were no windows in the room because the bedrooms faced a brick wall ally between the home and the music shop the O'Connell's owned next door. But she could see the outline shadows of a person hobbling quickly outside the room.

Cassie was supposed to be spending the night with a school mate. With a quick glance at the alarm clock stationed on the night table opposite her, Jenna realized that just after one in the morning was too early for her foster sister to return home. And the quick pad of a cane suggested it was her brother anyways.

She pulled herself out of the bed with a huff of frustration, preparing herself for another sleepless night at the hands of Mick's PTSD. Not like he would have admitted to having PTSD, though. He had only been out of the hospital, against every doctor order and loud verbal argument with their foster parents, since the first of October. Weeks of physical therapy, medications, specialized vitamins and diet to hopefully salvage what was left of his immune system, and useless psychological therapy sessions had left him less tolerant to the world at large.

When he wasn't attempting to sleep in the old bedroom he once shared with Liam, which became Jenna's room after he moved out when he was eighteen, he was pouring himself over Interpol application requirements. As if he was planning to quit SAS for Interpol. Jenna had to admit that it was probably safer than the front lines of a war zone. But she didn't think he needed to be concerned with that at the moment. He was given a year of leave from SAS and he was wasting his recovery time. Which was doing nothing for his recovery at all.

Jenna shrugged the blankets off her brown pajama covered legs and stood quickly, groping for her robe she had thrown over the back of the futon hours ago. Long dark hair was a mess and she raked her hand through it absentmindedly. Sleep had made her fumble with the robe once she found it, fighting to put her matching brown pajama laden arms through the sleeves. The carpet was chilly against bare feet and she shivered against it, rubbing her sore eyes in the process as she headed for the door.

"Coop said they're taking him to Charing Cross! That's thirty minutes away but we can make it in ten if ya would just…"

That was Mick in the kitchen, Jenna concluded as she pulled the bedroom door open and propped herself against the frame, scrubbing her eyes against the onslaught of the hall lights. He was panicked, more than she had seen him since Liam's first heroin overdose in October. It was raw and hard to grip, Welsh accent slurred and pleading with emotion Jenna had rarely seen from him. Even through the nightmares he awoke from with a scream, the panic that gripped him and made him nearly unbearable at the slightest bang, she hadn't heard this before. She had never heard him on the verge of tears, and that was definitely where the situation was headed.

"I already told you no. You're staying here with your sister and mother. Cooper's probably already there so I'll get the real details from him." William O'Connell interrupted sharply as he stormed around the kitchen, undoubtedly looking for his car keys. He was furious at Mick, at whatever the hell he and Liam had gotten themselves into again, and didn't bother to disguise it for the sake of Mick's _feelings_. Unfortunately William's tolerance for both Mick and Liam had been thin. Jenna had the horrible feeling he was going to kick Mick out of the home to find his own flat soon, seeing as the trust between the two had been almost nonexistent since Mick killed Abigail Patel.

Sam Cooper came back to London after Liam's first overdose. He was supposed to help Liam get clean, to stop the drugs before it killed him. But Jenna suspected there was another reason for his return. She didn't know much about the man, but she did know that he was in Iraq with Mick and the rest of the team. He brought them home, just as he promised. Granted it did take a month and she _wanted _to resent him for taking so damned long to save them. Still, he was a constant for Mick. Someone Mick talked to during lunches after physical therapy sessions every day, almost like a replacement for Liam and the rest of his team that refused to so much as look at him.

So why was he going to a hospital at one o'clock in the morning? And why the hell was Mick panicking?

There was a bang, much like Mick's wooden cane smashing into the marble counter top of the kitchen island, followed by a startled squeak from Lillian O'Connell. Jenna herself jumped at the noise, resisting the urge to hide in the bedroom until the fight ended.

"I heard everything!" Mick screamed, tone cracking as it echoed through the home. "I was on the damned phone with him when he did it! He said that he was sorry and then he put that damned gun in his mouth and… I heard it go off…" He trailed off with a choked gasp, as if trying to stop himself from sobbing hysterically.

And that was all it took to drag Jenna to her senses. She was awake and alert within seconds, feeling the color drain from her face as suffocating realization took hold. It twisted her stomach into knots at the sudden mental image, and as much as she wanted to run and confirm that it wasn't true, she couldn't. She was frozen where she stood, feeling tears swell in her eyes and her mouth dry in a skipped heartbeat.

Liam tried to kill himself.

Or was he even still alive?

Jenna scrambled for a reason. Why would Liam do something so _stupid_? There were too many reasons, actually. He suffered from PTSD that made Mick's look like a simple panic attack at times. The loss of his fingers and therefore his guitar had made him severely depressed. That guitar had been his lifeguard for his entire life, the one thing he carried through homes and played because it was a comfort. Because he needed it. But it was gone, taken by the bastard that tortured him and Mick with the rest of their team months ago.

And then Fiona Martin left two weeks ago. Liam had taken to heroin as a better pain medication and anti-depressant than the prescribed medications. It was illegal, and how he managed to get his hands on it, Jenna could only guess. Fiona stuck around as long as she could, even through the first overdose Mick had found him in. But she had enough of the drugs and the constant stress. The Liam she knew and loved was gone, nothing but a faint memory in a shell that didn't even look like him anymore. So she left to go back to Ireland. Without him. Without the wedding they had planned for February of the next year.

But not without the knowledge that she was a month pregnant. Fiona hadn't told anyone else other than Jenna simply because she didn't want Mick or Liam to know. The child was most certainly Liam's. Jenna didn't speak a word of it to anyone else because she valued secrets.

She has _never_ spoken about it with anyone. If Fiona wants the news of Liam's child into the world one day, that was her decision. Jenna wanted no part in that dramatic outcome.

That must have been the reason. Liam must have found out that Fiona was pregnant with his child. That he was going to be a father. He must have snapped. That _had_ to be reason.

Jenna shook herself out of her stunned stupor and rushed for the kitchen, unaware of the cold transfer of carpet to wood within seconds beneath her feet. She rounded the corner in the length of a breath and stopped just short of entering. Standing rigidly in the door way, she blinked away the tears with effort and focused on her brother and foster parents.

They stood with their backs to her. Lillian was still dressed in her long black night gown and slippers peeking out of her favored cotton bath robe, shoulder length brunette hair faintly peppered with gray askew and tears staining her exhausted fears. She looked towards Jenna was wide eyes for a brief moment, clearly wanting to order the younger woman back to bed. But decided against it seeing as Jenna was quite persistent and perceptive when she wanted to be.

William was fussing about the coat rack near the back door, rustling through the coats and jackets pockets for his car keys. He was hazardously dressed, his jeans thrown over what Jenna assumed was his night shorts and his patchy gray tee shirt not something he usually wore in public. His usual running trainers untied with the laces threatening to trip him with every step. The black winter coat was only on one arm, dangling the other sleeve to brush the floor. Just like Mick, he was panicking. But he knew how to deal with it far better than Mick.

Mick was leaning heavily against the marble kitchen top island. His thick wooden cane was splayed on the top yet he still gripped the handle in a vice grip that whitened his scarred knuckles. Checking himself out of the hospital against medical advice had been a mistake. Jenna could see it in the struggle to remain standing, the stiff yet shaking posture through black sweats and the holey navy blue tee shirt. She could see the way he kept his still healing arm close to his chest, protecting the cast she and Cassie had personalized for him. The way his leg, which the cast had been removed days ago but he wasn't supposed to be putting weight on it, was lifted so his bare toes barely scraped the floor. Jenna couldn't see his face, but she didn't need to.

"Which is why you're staying here." Lillian intervened softly, voice low enough that Jenna barely heard her. She was tired but didn't let that show very much. Although Jenna could hear it and the overwhelming fear and sadness gripping her by the way her voice shook. "Mick, just let us handle it. William will go find out what's going on from Cooper. Once we know anything…"

"I should have been there." Mick blurted with another pound on the kitchen island with his cane. "We were just talking and then he blurts out that he's sorry. How the hell could I have _not_ now known?"

"Is he still alive?" Jenna couldn't help the question. It slipped through her lips despite her will to be silent. If she was understanding everything, then they shouldn't have been in the bloody kitchen. They should have been at the hospital with Liam and the doctors who were going to fix him again.

William found his car keys in Mick's coat pocket and turned to her in unison with everyone else, staring wide eyed and nervous as if they were too afraid to answer. Mick's expression drew her attention more than her foster parents though. He hadn't shaved in a few days and the dark stubble on pale and thin features made him appear older. Few scars were taking their time to fade. For twenty one years, he looked more to be in his thirties. Severe malnutrition and the diminishing bruises still discoloring his skin probably were to blame. More than that, the absolute terror in chocolate colored and bloodshot eyes was heartbreaking. She had never seen him cry and hoped that she never would. But it looked as though he was going to snap at any moment.

"We don't know, darling." Lillian answered timidly, approaching Jenna with open arms to draw her into a hug. Jenna knew her own tears at the conclusion must have been just as bad as Mick. She didn't want to be treated as a child at that moment though.

She wanted to know what the hell was going on with her brothers.

"How the bloody hell can you _not _know?" Jenna seethed as she sidestepped, folding her arms over her chest. She gave Mick a harsh expression and swallowed the emotion choking her voice. "You said you heard him shoot himself, and Cooper's going to the hospital too. How did he even get a gun? You're not supposed to have your service pistols out of service. And he hasn't talked to you in a week after your little fight, so what do you mean you two were just talking? "

Jenna knew that was bordering on cruel. Liam wouldn't admit it, but Jenna knew he blamed Mick for everything. She knew he resented Mick, avoided any contact with him like his other teammates, which only made the past few months more hellish. Their latest verbal fight only verified what she already knew and resulted in silence between the two for an entire week. What was said had been ugly in nature, hurtful and uncalled for no matter how true it was. Unfortunately Jenna had heard everything, every curse they slung to each other and cold but sincere claim. If Mick hadn't been recovering from multiple surgeries to fix his injuries, the fight probably would have turned physically violent.

"I don't know!" Mick hissed. "I don't know how he got the gun or from where, or why he did it. And to be honest, I don't care. We shouldn't be arguing about the damned technicalities. We should be there, with him and Cooper. _Now_."

William finished shrugging on his coat and checked his pockets for his wallet and mobile. Then shook his head and countered commandingly. "You can hate me all you want, but you're not going. I'm not dragging your ass to the hospital just so you can wait for Liam to grow back a few brain cells of common sense. He tried to kill himself with drugs once before and you would think he learned his lesson." He ranted for a moment, then drew a heavy breath to force some kind of calmness at Mick's pleading expression. "You're not dressed properly, you can barely stand, you're late on taking your nightly medication, and you don't need this kind of stress right now. I'll find out what's happened from Cooper and the doctors. You stay here with your mother and sister and rest. Lillian can call Fiona to tell her what's happened once we know something."

Mick wasn't given time to argue. He wanted to, that much was obvious. But William stormed out of the home through the back door, slamming the wood behind him with a sharp crack that made the sniper jump. Mick couldn't understand how William and Lillian could do that to him. To refuse to let him see Liam for himself, just to verify that he was alive. Jenna could though. While she didn't think William's tactic was helpful, she could understand why bringing Mick to the hospital just to wait for news was probably a bad idea.

The silence that followed was rough, tormenting and relentless as it seemed to focus everyone's attention on Mick. Who just stared at the closed back door in shock, mouth open slightly as if his argument was still on the tip of his tongue. There was no room for argument. Not really. William's car was heard zipping out of the driveway less than minute after he left, meaning Mick couldn't have chased after him even if he was capable of doing so.

Lillian approached him cautiously, keeping her hands outstretched and non-threatening. It was something she and William learned years ago. Mick and Liam and Jenna were less accepting of people when they were younger. Too many frightening homes, days spent in shelters or with school mates because their foster parents were dangerous, incited the ever present paranoia. Unfortunately it was only worsened in Mick's case by whatever those bastards did to him in Iraq.

"Mick, come sit down please." Lillian tried to coax him towards a kitchen stool on the opposite side of the counter. When Mick didn't respond, she rounded the counter and dragged the stool behind him, attempting to push him onto it gently.

He flinched at her touch on his arm, smacking her hands away and pushing himself to a short distance. The cane clattered to the floor and out of his grip, the noise echoed through the walls in the kitchen as if they were in a cave. He was startled and defensive, holding onto whatever control he could possibly grasp because it was all he had at that moment. Jenna knew things were only going to get worse from there.

"It's not your fault, darling." Lillian whispered sincerely with a quick glance at Jenna, silently urging her to agree.

Jenna couldn't entirely agree. She wanted to, but rationally speaking, she couldn't. Mick had brought the mess he and his teammates endured in Iraq upon himself. He cheated on Abigail Patel, had been an absolute donkey to women in general, and paid his price for it. His teammates, James and Brett and Evan, even Liam, all thought the same thing, she was sure. If he had just been responsible and mature, none of that would have happened. Life would have carried on without the nightmare he created.

So she hesitated in her response. Which seemed to be more than enough incentive to Mick as to what she was thinking exactly.

He shook his head slowly, expression darkening in realization as he looked between the two women. "Neither of you believe that. Not really." He mumbled dejectedly. Then he was reaching for his cane on the floor, quick and careful as to not agitate the healing injuries. "Should've guessed you'd side with them." He continued bitterly once the wood was his hand, shooting Jenna a spiteful scolding expression. "Yeah, I screwed up and got what was coming for it. It's my fault they'll be discharged from SAS and Liam tried to kill himself. Go on, say it. Both of you, just say it." He was seething, trying to look for an excuse to replace sorrow and fear with rage. Rage was easier to handle, Jenna learned years ago, because it was mindless. It didn't require anything else and that was exactly what he wanted.

But Jenna and Lillian remained mute, too shocked to fathom an intelligible response to his words. Remaining silent was probably the best and worst thing for the situation though. Either way Jenna pondered, the outcome was the same. She couldn't win and neither could Lillian. Anything they said would have been adding fuel to the fire and she wasn't about to do that.

Mick took the silence as a deluded answer. Something Jenna didn't think was even fair considering she hadn't said anything. He leaned on the cane heavily and swallowed rigidly, and Jenna assumed that was to maintain his outward appearance of anger. She watched him blink several times, pulling back on the cane to scrub his eyes before dropping the end back to the floor sharply. "Fine, I'll go myself. I don't need either of you." He turned on a dime after those harsh words and headed for the back door, ignoring his coat and boots near the door that would have protected him against the cold outside. Lillian called out for him to stop and even made a dash for the door. But she couldn't stop him from leaving and neither could Jenna.

Jenna wasn't about to let him traverse the cold winter streets of London alone, upset and barefoot and probably suicidal if her horrible instinct was any indication. So she dashed back towards her temporary bedroom and retrieved her winter boots, sliding them on effortlessly before replacing her robe with a thick jacket. Her coat was found on the rack next to the door and her mobile phone was pocketed out of habit. One last look at Lillian, at the red tearful eyes and desperation to fix the situation, had Jenna rushing out of the door behind Mick.

She may not have been able to convince him to return home. But she was going to stop him from doing something horrendously stupid. Liam was already gone and she wasn't going to let the same thing happen to Mick.

* * *

Mick had a secret affinity for the ocean. It wasn't something he voiced aloud or admitted openly. The water was comforting, rhythmic and consistent in its nature, relaxing despite its endless view and unhindered possibilities, something Jenna knew reminded him of home. Wales, not London. So that's where she found him.

The closest vast body of water was the Thames, which was miles from the O'Connell's home. It was a common hideaway for Mick and Liam when they were younger, finding the banks surrounding the Chiswick bridge suitable enough to drink stolen alcohol and for Liam to smoke his illegal cigarettes. Jenna knew about it because she had followed them one day, curious as to what they were doing after school. They chose to enjoy alcohol and cigarettes while doing their homework. Sometimes Liam would bring his guitar to the riverside and play, claiming that the sound echoed off the water which enhanced the acoustics. Other times Mick took a rather frightening pleasure in using his handmade slingshot to shoot at the ducks and birds with river stones.

No matter how bad life got for Mick, Jenna could always find him by the river. Whether it was on the banks near the Chiswick bridge or somewhere else. He was _always_ by the water.

It was just after three o'clock when she found him. London never truly sleeps so the distant buzz of city noise was hardly drowned by the gentle flow of the river. Had it not been for the full moon overhead and the bright lights on the bridge itself, Jenna probably would have missed her brother.

He was on the bank near the stone support leg of the bridge, curled into himself and rocking back and forth in tandem with the river. Legs were drawn tight to his chest and secured with his cast arm, bare toes digging into the frozen sand with every movement. The opposite hand was snaked into his hair, pulling the dark messy strands, which had been somewhat thinner than usual due to the malnutrition, as he hummed what Jenna recognized as one of their mother's old lullabies. He had to have been freezing, considering it was only thirty degrees with a constant wind to worsen it, but he wasn't shivering as she was. Jenna didn't see his cane, but she did catch a few pieces of what she assumed was it floating in the river near the shore. Indents on the sand suggested he may have broken it into pieces for whatever reason.

The last time she had witnessed him in such a state, he was seventeen and had just learned that the girl he adored hung herself in her bedroom. He stayed out of school for a week afterwards, disappearing to whatever hideout he found, and plotted for revenge against the bastard that caused her to do such a thing. That ended in disaster. Jenna hoped she could salvage the situation before it came to that again.

Mick made no indication that he knew she was there, standing on the sands behind him. He seemed lost in his own head, eyes unfocused as he watched the water and hummed to himself mindlessly. The steady back and forth motion was much like a trance he inadvertently put himself in for protection. And Jenna wasn't entirely sure if she could snap him out of it.

What she saw was the exact opposite of what she assumed. Mick didn't _act _tormented most of the time. She wasn't naive enough to think that he wasn't affected by the torture he endured. The nights of sleeplessness, when he was left away from people and to his own thoughts, proved that he remember so much more than he claimed. Meaning he was tormented by them like any other human being would have been. But when he was around others he wasn't entirely comfortable with, people like Cooper or doctors or even his teammates, he was able to crack a fake smile and lie to some degree.

He wasn't lying this time. It was raw and strange, showing Jenna a side that she wished didn't even exist because it scared her with every passing second.

She rubbed her bare hands together quickly and tried to quell the nervousness. Lying to herself wasn't a habit. She was still slightly frustrated by everything that happened. By the fact that Mick wasn't honest with her, and there was still so much to the story as far as how and why Liam shot himself that Mick wouldn't reveal. But as the night wore on and realization set in, she began to understand why he wasn't honest.

He was scared and therefore reacted upon instinct. Except when he found that he couldn't travel to the hospital and actually see him in his current state, he ran to hide until he could find a way to do so. Jenna knew she probably would have done the same if she were in his position.

She pulled her coat tighter with a sigh and stuffed her hands in the pockets, feeling her mobile against her fingers.

Lillian had called multiple times since she left the house to chase after Mick. Jenna was consistent though, telling her foster mother that she would return home with Mick soon. She tried to get answers as to Liam's condition, but all Lillian could say was that he was in surgery and the doctors weren't entirely optimistic. There was mentions of severe brain damage because the bullet was lodged in the center of his brain and the doctors didn't think they could remove it safely. As well as the fact that he had shot himself with another dose of heroin just before he pulled the trigger, which meant they were limited on the proper procedures until they could flush the drug from his system. He was alive though, still holding on by a thread. At least she had something to tell Mick, even if it wasn't the preferred news.

"Mick?" Jenna called out softly as she came to stand beside him. When he didn't respond even in the slightest, she crouched to sit on the heels of her boots. Touching him while he was in that state didn't sound like a great idea, so she fumbled with her fingers to resist the urge to shake him. "Mickey?" She tried to gather his attention again with a wave of her hand in his face. The fact that he didn't even flinch scared her even more.

She knew very little about her family history, but she did know that her grandmother was schizophrenic. That was the reason why they couldn't stay with her for more than two months after their parents died. She had an episode that was reported by a neighbor, one in which she attacked her favored garden bed and fence with an ax because she hallucinated that they were on fire. Then sat in the middle of the lawn and talked to herself until the police arrived. Jenna knew Mick wasn't schizophrenic because he had gotten tested for it, among dozens of other things, weeks ago and the results were negative. But she was beginning to have doubts.

"Michael!" She hissed out of desperation, risking startling him and receiving a fist to the face by forcefully ceasing his rocking. Her hands wrapped into the few inches of sleeves on his tee shirt, feeling his skin frigid beneath her knuckles as she held him still.

The contact broke him out of his stupor more violently than she anticipated. He shoved her away with his good hand to her throat, causing her to cry out in surprise when she landed on her rear a foot away. Then struggled to rise from the sands, trying desperately to get his feet beneath him. It was instinct, Jenna told herself as she climbed to her feet and brushed her hands against her coat. He would never intentionally hurt her. Jenna invaded his personal space to wake him, and she knew better than to do something like that. Especially after everything he had been through in Iraq.

"Mick, stop it." Jenna ordered sternly as she approached him again, this time outstretching her palms to show she was not a threat. He sank back to the sand a moment later, staring at her with wide bloodshot and faintly damp eyes. She sighed as she shrugged off her coat and draped it over his shoulders. Once it was settled and he stopped trying to resist, she crouched to sit on her heels and avoided eye contact. "What are you doing out here?"

He stared at the sand, sniffling against the cold. "I could ask you the same thing." He retorted before he bit the scar forming across his bottom lip.

"I came to make sure you're okay." She responded honestly.

Mick shot her a roll of his eyes, clearly displeased with her sincerity. "Right, because I'm screwed up enough to need a bloody sitter. They tell you to drag me back kickin' and screamin' so they can blame me for some damned apocalypse too?" He shot back in frustration, digging his toes into the sand harder.

Self loathing. Jenna knew it well enough. She had watched it transform him into someone different since his return from Iraq. Watching him blame himself, understanding that he had every right to hate himself as much as his teammates did, was just _hard_, for lack of a better word.

She heaved another sigh and forced herself to quell the smart mouthed retaliation. Then rocked on her heels as she mumbled sincerely, "It's okay, ya know. I get that you hate yourself for what happened. But it really wasn't your fault. There's nothing you could have done that would have stopped any of this." It was a necessary lie, something she needed to voice just to fool him into thinking rationally again.

Mick rubbed his eyes roughly with his fingers, digging into the sockets as he snorted a disbelieving laugh. "You need to work on your delivery."

"My _delivery _is just fine. I can lie just as well as you can." Jenna countered.

"Yeah, I can tell by the way ya just lied to me a second ago." The sniper retorted, dragging his gaze back to the river.

Jenna huffed and narrowed her eyes, holding the response on the tip of her tongue until the correct moment. She could have defended herself adamantly. The problem was that Mick was much more perceptive than she was. He had years of experience over her head. Lying to him was a challenge because he often wasn't foolish enough to believe it. So she tried a different tactic. "Liam's still alive. The doctors are still working on him, and they aren't entirely optimistic…"

Her words seemed to break the shell as his expression fell. The acknowledgement that Liam was alive, despite the fact that he could have been a completely different person if he ever awoke after the surgery, was all it took to drag him back to those few minutes he didn't want to discuss. Jenna almost felt guilty for his broken attitude again. But she needed to know what the hell happened and Mick needed to talk about it. Otherwise it was going to eat him alive, and Jenna wasn't going to watch that.

"I heard him shoot himself." Mick interrupted quietly, drawing into himself again and holding the coat tight against his chest. He started rocked back and forth again, his toes digging into the icy sand as his head twitched sideways an inch. "I had another nightmare. Where I was back there with the hot poker and it kept digging in my arm and I couldn't scream or do anything to stop it because they injected that damn drug again…" He stopped abruptly to look at his arms, the remnants of torture marked with ugly scars on flesh, only partially covered by the cast on his arm that stretched from just under his elbow to the tips of his fingers. The covered hand itself wasn't expected to be healed for quite a while after his last surgery to have one of the bones reset that had healed against a nerve.

He drew a shaking breath to stop the rising nausea as he continued, "I didn't know who else to talk to. You were asleep and Lillian and William were too, so I just called him. We were just talking and then he apologized. At first I didn't know what the hell he was talking about. Then I heard the safety of a gun and his jaw popped when he put it in his mouth…" He trailed off when his voice cracked, his complexion in the moonlight almost appearing green at the thoughts of what he heard over the phone. "I called for an ambulance and then called Cooper to meet them there because his hotel is only a block away from Liam's flat building."

Jenna bowed her head, wiping her own eyes as tears swelled again. She loved Liam as much as Mick did. He was family, despite not being biologically related. Nothing was ever going to change that. The thought of them enduring that much at the hands of someone else was disgusting and infuriating. Seeing her brothers fall apart, the two people she never once thought were even capable of shedding a single tear, it was unbearable. They had always been the strong ones in the family. Jenna cried when a boyfriend broke up with her, or when she was afraid that she had lost Mick and Liam overseas forever. That sort of thing never would have affected the brothers.

Whatever happened in Iraq changed all of that.

The younger Rawson gave a short nod in understanding, then fell back onto the cold ground to drag her legs in front of her chest and clasped her hands together around them. "And I imagine you can't get the sound out of your head. That's why you came here."

Mick drew a heavy breath as he answered in a terrified tone. "It won't stop. It just keeps replaying over and over and over." His hand slid into his hair again, heel pushed against his skin and fingers pulling strands out of overwhelming anxiety.

"The sound of the river helps?"

He looked hesitant to answer, studying the sand beneath his feet for a moment to buy time for a decent response. Then nodded slowly and fixed her with a stern expression. "You can't tell anyone, Jen. It's hard enough keeping the damned psychologist out of my head. You can't give them a reason to keep prying…"

"Like I would ever do something like that." Jenna interrupted with a roll of her eyes. Psychologists were never her favorite people either. They were also so eager to label her or her brothers emotionally unstable. True, they all did things when they were younger that could have been perceived as rebellious and psychologically troubling. But they grew up eventually. Although, what she had seen just minutes before was disturbing. Perhaps mentioning it to Cooper was better. He wasn't a psychologist, but knew enough about the human mind to help. "I hate them just as much as you do."

Silence followed the siblings, both watching the mesmerizing roll of the river reflecting moonlight and the canvas of stars parted by few rain clouds.

"You should go home." Mick muttered after a few minutes. He pushed the coat off his shoulders to offer it back to her.

"They know where I am." Jenna responded, refusing to accept the coat. She was cold, but Mick had been out in the weather longer than her. He was barefoot and had stopped shivering some time ago. Jenna wasn't sure what that meant exactly. She knew his immune system was still a mess and if Doctor Cosgrave were there, he would probably sedate Mick and put him back in the hospital just to make sure he didn't catch any kind of infection from the weather and the shoreline. Truthfully, she had no intention of leaving him anyways. "I'll go if you do."

Another few moments of silence passed between them before Jenna continued uneasily, "I thought you were going to try it yourself." She paused at Mick's confused expression, rubbing her hands over the arm sleeves of her jacket. "Suicide, like Liam did, I mean. It scared me."

"Honestly, I thought so too." He responded in a whisper, not once removing his eyes from the water. "I thought about it every day I was locked in that hell hole. There were chains they had us tied up with. I could have easily hung myself on the cell door using the slack. Or used the sharp edge of the metal bed frame to slit my wrists or throat." He stopped abruptly at Jenna horrified stare, swallowing the rising nausea at the memory running through his head. "But I didn't because I couldn't. I promised mum and dad that I would make sure you stay safe. If I died in that place, what would have happened to you?"

Jenna didn't want to ponder that. The promise had been made when she was just a newborn and she didn't even remember the deal. But Mick took it to heart, no matter the extreme, and it had led him to trouble quite a few times. This one time though, she was just glad that he went to extremes to keep it. It kept him alive until Cooper found him, and somehow sane through all of the chaos afterwards.

She pushed the coat back over his shoulders and leaned her head against his bicep, careful not to startle him at the contact. "Don't you ever think about that shit again." She scolded lightly, glancing up at his face. "It's over. I'm sure none of it was your fault, despite what everyone else says. Whatever happens to Liam, whether he lives or not, you have to remember that."

Mick nodded and didn't respond. But Jenna could tell that he didn't believe it. He probably never would.

* * *

Note- Ta-da! Hi people! I'm back! This would have been finished sooner had I not gotten a bit paranoid in some parts. I tried to keep the most disturbing things to a minimum without compromising the storyline simply because I don't want to have to mark this as Mature. There's actually a lot more written for this that I don't know if I will post. It's emotionally thick though. I left the ending open for interpretation. If you've read my other stories, then you'll know that Liam does live but unfortunately ends up in a catatonic state after he wakes. I'll expand on the details of that as the main story line progresses. This was more to show Mick and Jenna's reactions. I wanted to show that Jenna isn't as oblivious as she pretends to be. The mention of their grandmother was just a mention that answers why Mick and Jenna couldn't stay with her. I've got a one-shot for that already planned out.  
So, I think that's it for now. This was shorter than my previous, but I hope you still enjoyed it all the same. Leave a review if you can to let me know. A huge thanks to everyone who has read, reviewed, and subscribed to my stuff so far!


	7. Sympathetic Part 1

Criminal Minds Suspect Behavior Drabble Series

Intermission

Sympathetic

Summary- Sympathy is only natural in a healthy mind. But sometimes it's not wanted.

Rated teen for themes. Nothing explicit though. There are no pairings exactly. It could be read as Mick/Beth. This does follow my own series so the obvious pairing would be Mick/Gina if she were more than a mention in this one. Because this takes place a week after Beth joined the team, I felt that it was necessary to tell this from her perspective. The unsub will probably have a use in my main story line later, or a future one-shot, because I like him. I think there's a lot more I can do with him.

I don't own anything involving Criminal Minds Suspect Behavior. Unfortunately. If I did, the team would have continued their investigations on TV. And they probably would have focused on Mick because I _don't _have an obsession. It's not an _obsession_, right? Ha! Who am I fooling? It is a freakish obsession. Anyways, the only things I do claim are my imagination and creations. I am just borrowing everything else for my own entertainment and practice. No one beta reads my stuff so any spelling and grammar mistakes are my own. Please don't verbally kill me for a typo.

Also, I am not a scientist (although my dad and I tend to discuss theories and news often, and I have an addiction for science fiction shows) so if any of the scientific stuff doesn't actually work in real life, I apologize. This can almost be counted as science fiction. Almost. I'd have to kill someone and bring them back to be satisfied enough to call it science fiction though…which brings me to an idea for a Fringe crossover one-shot.

Now, enough of my ramblings. To the story!

* * *

Sympathetic Part 1

'_The highest that we can attain to is not knowledge, but sympathy with intelligence.' - Henry David Thoreau._

Beth Griffith prided herself on the virtue of wisdom. Past experiences, good and bad, prepared her for the world at large since a young age. She knew more than she presented to others and she had no intentions of ever changing that. Understanding the human thought process was still a challenge, but she knew enough to gauge those around her.

She knew when to recognize someone over their head in a mess they created, someone who didn't deserve what reality threw at them, people who had been damaged in some way to an extent that was not repairable. And she was inwardly sympathetic towards all of them. Never outward, since some people, like herself, didn't appreciate being reminded that their life was a jumbled mess of depressing events from start to finish.

The course of her career in the FBI had only doubled what she already knew about the world. She assumed she had seen or heard every possible form of murder ever created. There were multiple methods to destroy someone both physically and mentally. Physical maiming, self servant heinous acts, in league with the occasional forced extension of solitude was just a small percentage of what she had studied over the years. She knew people were creative when pushed to extremes, relying on the instinct of survival to keep themselves hidden because they knew it would be over if they were ever caught. It was terrible to think of such things. Unfortunately her job gave little choice for the issue.

But she had never seen an unsub use electricity in such a way before. It was disturbing and fascinating, something straight from a science fiction film, and Beth had to wonder if it was just the beginning of her job with Sam Cooper's Red Cell team.

Electricity is a weapon in itself. Most wouldn't realize it because electricity has been a staple of life for more than a century. It's controlled in some fashion and therefore doesn't often pose a threat. Lightening is the obvious exception, and most only anticipate it as dangerous in that aspect alone. But in reality, electricity is far more dangerous than any knife or gun any unsub could ever use.

She had only been working with the team for a week when they were called to Tucson Arizona by the director of the FBI. It was a high priority case, something Beth had knowledge in considering her time in the Counter Terrorism units of the FBI before her transfer. Meaning they were required to be discrete and fast, and hopefully find the unsub before the next victim surfaced on another construction site.

The unsub was found within the third day of the investigation. Charlie Hicks, age twenty five, was credited for his work on theoretical physics and his new outlook on clean energy. He was socially inept, classified as _strange _and _probably schizophrenic_ by his peers and professors, and held a lengthy record of property damage that almost got him expelled on several occasions due to his _experiments_ on campus that were not authorized by the headmaster. Ridiculed for his awkwardness, he left the college six months before the first murder and didn't finish his studies like he wanted.

Motivation was determined after an interview with the headmaster of the school. Hicks left behind a girlfriend after he caught her cheating with a professor he was close friends with.

The first three attacks were centralized on men who bared a slight resemblance to the professor. Unlike most unsubs, he didn't target them with typical weapons. Security footage showed that he carried a backpack over his shoulders, rubber insulated wires peeking out of both sides that ran into his jacket were attached to what Mick guessed was some form of portable electric generator. The unsub didn't have to physically touch the victim. He just had to get close enough to clap his hands, which held the metal rods acting as triggers, and point them at the victim. Which sent a bolt of electricity strong enough to kill the victim before they hit the ground and obliterated every light bulb within a fifteen feet radius. All of the male victims were then dumped on one of the many abandoned construction sites just north of the city, rotting in the intense heat for several days, before someone discovered the bodies.

Four other women resembling Hick's girlfriend were murdered in the same fashion between June and the first of July in 2010. The last woman was the daughter to a highly respected land developer for the area. Her father was in charge of the construction sites that were being used as dumpsites. Two days before the team was sent on the case, she was reported missing by her parents when she didn't return home for a full twenty four hours. Twelve hours afterwards her body was found on a construction site, electrocuted in the same fashion as the others.

Knowing the identity of the unsub was just the beginning. The problem, after exhausting all possible leads based on his background, was finding him.

They were growing desperate for answers and an end to the case. Lack of an unsub in custody meant they had to scan through every piece of raw data they had. Which Beth could only take for so long before she started feeling the words embed on her eyelids. She could almost recite every report, every piece of seemingly unimportant evidence, like her alphabet. And it still wouldn't have led to Hicks.

She grew impatient on the third day, and apparently she wasn't alone.

It was just after lunch when she resumed her position at the conference room table. Thanks to the extensive paperwork, the room was lined with papers tacked against the walls and emptied paper coffee cups. The table itself was splayed with laptop computers and her cell phone, chairs pushed underneath with the exception of two.

Prophet and Gina were questioning the headmaster of the college and several previous students that had known the unsub again, hoping to find something they had missed the first time. Cooper and the lead detective were at the morgue to review the victims, editing the victimology profile to anticipate who Hicks was targeting next. Which left Beth and Mick to the station with stacks of paperwork and coded journals neither were able to fully decode.

Pausing in the doorway, she frowned in curiosity at Mick. He was pacing near the span of shaded windows, afternoon sunlight peeking through to illuminate the hand twisting the end of a pen between his teeth. His boots were rhythmic, as if he was lost in thought, jeans and thin dark red button tee shirt with a single button hanging open at the top ruffled from his urgency to dress earlier that morning. Sleeplessness was unavoidable in everyone involved on the case, but the signs were more prominent upon the roughly shaken features and mess of dark hair that stuck in any direction.

Profiling teammates was against the rules Cooper enlisted on all of them. But Mick was too curious, too odd, to not put together some assessment. It was never vocalized because she didn't want to start some kind of fight, knowing that if it became physical then she would have probably lost horribly. And she honestly didn't know much about him in terms of facts. What she did know were derived from observed nuances. He didn't let people touch him unless he deemed it safe, the only exclusion seemed to be Cooper and Gina. Privacy was a must seeing as he didn't mention a family back in England and all questions concerning them were diverted. IQ was exceedingly high for his age, which probably warranted his massive ego. And based on the fighting style he sparred with between cases and the extensive knowledge of weapons, explosives, and nearly everything basic military related, he spent several years in the British SAS.

Meaning he was more adjusted to the Arizona heat than Beth. Compared to Iraq or Afghanistan, the current weather was probably considered mild.

Even in the station the early July air was stagnant and thick. Heat poured through the covered windows in waves as the outside temperature peeked at one hundred and two for the rest of the day until nightfall. Beth could hear the pauses and clicks of the building air-conditioning units as they fought against it. She sighed in sympathy for the machine.

She waited a few more seconds before crossing the room and taking her seat. Her own jeans and gray blouse replaced her standard suit, which was an uncomfortable change since she hardly ever dressed in something so unprofessional during a case. Crossing her legs beneath the table as she drew the chair farther underneath, she clicked the heels of her old black boots, ones she hadn't worn since her days at the academy years ago, on the leg of the chair in hopes to gather his attention.

"Rawson, care to share what's in that big head of yours? Or are you just going to let me guess until I annoy you and you storm out of the room cursing at me in Welsh again. Which, by the way, is kind of pointless because I have no idea what the hell you're talking about when you start rambling a nearly dead language." She stated when she didn't get any other acknowledgement that she was heard.

Mick stopped abruptly, spinning on his heels to face her. He pulled the pen from between his teeth and scowled at her. "Welsh isn't a _nearly dead _language. If ya want, I'll recite a few things and you can run it through that bloody translator on your mobile you're so fond of." The Welsh-English accent was thicker than Beth had heard over the past week, somewhat frustrated at everything involving the case more over than her comments.

Beth held up her hands in mock surrender as she retorted, "Down boy. I was just trying to get your attention. No need to lop my head off my shoulders."

The younger man paused before he spoke again, expression loosening from apprehensive to understanding. "Right, sorry. Just got busy thinking about stuff and your comment distracted me…" He replied with a sigh, twisting the pen between his fingers absentmindedly. That was a tell, a nervous tick to keep his hands occupied when he was pondering something extensive, something that grounded him to reality. If she hadn't seen the same thing days before, she would have found it more strange than she already did.

So Beth understood completely. She started fumbling with the papers in front of her as a way to avoid eye contact. In past experience, men like that panic if they think they're being watched. They get uncomfortable and therefore make an excuse to leave the room for several minutes. Really, Beth didn't oppose interesting company. "No, I get it. So, you want to clue me in? Whatever had you captivated must have been important."

He nodded quickly and reached for a tattered journal on the far end of the table. It was compiled of yellowing pages not held by the binder anymore, coffee stains on the brown leather cover told of the unsubs' dependence to caffeine. Beth recognized it as one of the journals left by Hicks at the college. It was written in a complicated numeric code that Beth couldn't decipher though. She tried every trick that came to mind, but Hicks seemed to have made his own alphabet with no discernable key to keep his work safe.

"I tried to decipher that. It's impossible." She said as he flopped in a chair across from her and flipped the book open.

A smirk tugged on his lips as he jabbed a finger at a series of nearly unreadable numbers and formulas on the page. "It's not impossible. He created his own system based on the mathematical formulas developed by some of the most brilliant physicists and mathematical geniuses over the past four centuries. People like Newton and Einstein and Tesla…"

"So you actually solved it?" Beth interrupted pointedly. Listening to him ramble about theories she didn't understand was no more desirable than understanding what he was saying in Welsh when he was pissed at the world. It wasn't that she didn't have the basic required knowledge of the past geniuses that practically wrote the manuals for science today. And she did understand more about a few of the theories than others she had studied with over the years. But advanced physics such as what Mick and Hicks seemed to have a knack for went over her head and out the door.

"No, not yet." He answered somewhat dejectedly, dark eyes fell to the page and narrowed in determination. "I've got just under half deciphered though. It looks like he was on to something bigger with the generator he uses now. It generates between three hundred and five hundred volts of electricity, which is more than enough to kill the victims on contact, but it looks like he had other plans for it."

"Well he's using it to murder people now." She responded as she found a still photo taken from an ATM across the street from the parking lot the fourth victim was killed in. The method used was almost surreal, as if she was just imagining it during a dream after watching a television show before bed. There were too many potential problems, details that didn't make sense, and Beth could only use her imagination to fill in the holes. Still, one key aspect bothered her above all else. "How is he not electrocuting himself too?"

Mick looked up from the journal and furrowed his brow at the question, tapping his pen on the table in thought. "Well, the metal rods he uses in his hands are probably lined with some kind of high density rubber insulator towards the bottoms like handles. If ya remember your secondary school science classes, than you know that rubber doesn't conduct electricity." He pondered aloud as he reached over the table and took the surveillance photo for emphasis. Fingers traced the outline of the backpack in example as he continued. "The wires and coils are the same and I'm guessing so is the backpack. That forces the electricity to center on the desired point. He would have to split the electricity between the two equally or else it would create friction that would actually melt the rubber. When the two rods intersect, the electricity is released with enough force to physically cross the distance between the unsub and the victim. Theoretically, if he were to touch just one of the rods with his bare hands and they weren't contained in rubber, he would electrocute himself on contact the moment he starts the generator. So the entire setup is extremely dangerous for both himself and the victims."

"But wouldn't he need someplace to recharge after every kill?" Beth questioned as the mental imagine he painted played through her head. It made sense at his explanation, but there were still quite a few things that needed answered. And Beth didn't think he could answer all of them. "I mean, the generator has to use a lot of power. By the time anyone notices what's happening, he and the victim are gone. We know he has a classic muscle car from the eighties that he's renovated and that's his escape method. So where does he go between dumping the bodies and waiting for the next kill. He stalks the victims for a day or two before he kills them…"

That was the biggest conundrum they were facing at the moment. The reason for why they hadn't apprehended Hicks yet was because they hadn't found his place of refuge. Based on Beth's geological assessment, it was somewhere within two miles of the construction sites used for the disposal of the bodies. Unfortunately a large majority of the sites north of the city were abandoned when funding from the state fell and a severe lightening storm damaged multiple supports beyond repair. Over two hundred uncompleted structures meant to be another subdivision could have been used as a hideout, and the local police had only been able to check all but fifty over the past several days. That didn't include the residential areas they hadn't searched yet due to the fact that the identity of the unsub had only been known since earlier that morning.

Mick leaned back in his chair, replacing the end of his pen between his teeth again. "Ya up for a road trip?" He questioned over the pen, glancing at the maps Beth had edited and pegged to the wall beside the chalk board. "The fifty homes not searched yet are probably our best bet. I say we give the local PD a hand in their search. It beats just sitting here and memorizing the data for the millionth time. Besides, other than the fact that Hicks' work is fascinating and I could spend days reading through it once it's decoded, it isn't going to help us find him."

Beth couldn't agree more. They were ordered to stay at the station and work the profile using the raw data though. Cooper had made it very clear that he wanted a more perfected profile by the time he arrived back with the victimology profile. Beth wasn't entirely opposed to following orders, but in past experiences sometimes following them didn't help the case end any faster.

So she fished around the mess of paperwork until she found a specified map of the uncompleted structures given by the land developer. Every electrical line, water pipe, road ,tree or shrub, and base foundation were highlighted in varies colors with the designer's personal notes scribbled to the sides. She spread it between them, pushing away coffee cups and pens and papers with a huff of annoyance, and asked, "So where do we start?"

Mick chewed on the pen as he studied it for a moment. "Well, he would need someplace finished enough for hiding but not enough to draw attention. So probably one of the homes that had the basement finished first. He would need access to electricity to recharge the generator because it's probably only good for one kill at a time. That explains the days between the murders."

"But none of the structures have electricity." She interrupted pointedly. "Out of the fifty that are left, only twenty look to have the basements completed." A pause was used to direct his attention to half a dozen structures set away from the rest, as if they were going to be part of a specialized region. "If he's clever, then that's probably where he's hiding. It's set away from the rest and wouldn't be checked by the local police until last because it's marked as private. Meaning they need a search warrant."

The younger man nodded his agreement as he stood from the chair, rummaging through the mess on the table for his sunglasses. "Yeah, but we don't need one. The generator, if in the wrong hands and if I'm reading his sketches right, could be modified to take out a power grid the size of Phoenix, and it could make one hell of an explosion if it comes to that point. Which puts this case under a matter of national security."

Beth gathered her own sunglasses and cell phone as she stood, folding the map to store it in her bag for reference once they arrived at the scene. Cooper never once said that his cases would delve into a matter of national security. Those cases weren't unfamiliar because she had worked quite a few over her years. But she had the horrible feeling that it would be much worse than a domestic terrorist group threatening the government if Hicks ever escalated his methods.

* * *

Beth had been to thirty state in the nation over the course of twenty five years. When she was a young teenager her father moved her, after the death of her mother and brother due to a fatal car crash on the way to his school's seasonal football game, from Ohio to Delaware. Then after he lost his license as a brain surgeon when she was sixteen, just before she ran away from home to live with school friends because she couldn't handle his depression and alcoholism along with her own, they settled in Maryland. The farthest she had traveled was to California in 2006 for a case in Hollywood. So the prospect of varying climates as opposed to what she was accustomed to was not surprising. It was expected, actually.

But that didn't necessarily mean she was _happy_ with the occasional drastic change. Places such as Maine and Washington State, even Kentucky and Alabama, were reasonable. She could stand the damp weather or rainstorms or even the threat of a tornado. A desert, however, was not something she ever _wanted_ to become accustomed to.

She had prepared for it as Cooper advised before the trip to Arizona. Bottles of sun block, sunglasses, clothing that was thin so she remained cool but shielded from the harmful and abrasive rays of the sun, plenty of water to preserve hydration, even more than one container of deodorant so the excess smell of sweat wouldn't scare away fellow teammates and workers. It was just a list to start with and Beth had no trouble following it. Preparation for the situation at hand had always been a valued factor of her personality. But it seemed that she had forgotten one particularly important item.

"Ya forgot a hat." Mick stated the obvious as he parked the SUV outside the small gated area protecting the six homes they were intent on searching for the unsub. He looked at her with a smirk from the driver seat, one hand still gripped to the steering wheel while the other fumbled with his cell phone in his lap. The sunglasses perched on his nose seemed to be slick with sweat that clung to his button shirt. A white and green baseball cap obscuring his hair and blocking the sun from burning his head was curious, especially when Beth saw the stitched red dragon and year _1999_ imprinted on the front. It was tattered on the edges and stained in yellow patches with red in others, suggesting it had survived his teenage years and well into his time overseas.

Beth shifted in the passenger seat uncomfortably, fanning her hand in front of her face as the vehicle air-conditioner barely made a dent in the scorching Arizona heat. Sweat dripped from her brow as she wiped it away with the back of her hand, spreading over the back of her shirt and giving her tied back dark hair a sort of frizzy look. The sunlight through her sunglasses was abnormally bright, too intense to possibly consider removing the lenses. With a roll of her eyes she retorted sarcastically, "Wow, great observation Sherlock. I never would have guessed myself."

The Welshman narrowed his eyes and snorted a laugh, sliding his cell phone back into his jeans pocket. He had already contacted Cooper and Prophet to notify them of their idea to single out the few unfinished homes ahead. While Cooper wasn't pleased by the fact that Mick had just followed his own theory without consulting him first, he seemed rather understanding. Gina and Prophet were going to meet them at the location within the hour, and local police were thirty minutes behind. Waiting for backup to arrive was procedure, it was _logical_ and _safe_, but neither Beth nor Mick were truly patient people.

"Someone has to open the gate." Mick gave a pointed expression at the metal barrier as he pulled off his cap and ruffled sweat slick hair. "I'll let ya use mine if you do it." He offered the hat with a snide smirk, waving it in front of her face tauntingly. It reeked of sweat and dust though, as if he had dug it out of a suitcase before the case started, and Beth smacked it away with a disgusted scowl.

"That thing reeks. When was the last time you cleaned it?" She edged closer to the door as she replied, hands finding the latch of the door to push it open slightly. Mick shrugged and waved it in front of her face again childishly. To avoid it, she unbuckled herself from the seat and pushed the car door open completely. "Gina's right, you're a damned child." She scolded as she hopped out and onto the pavement. Mick grinned widely in response and mumbled something she didn't quite understand through his accent.

The pavement was blindingly reflective. Heat radiated up through her boots and into cotton socks, making her feet sweat more than they already were. She held her hand above her sunglasses and squinted as she approached the gate.

The gate itself was nothing more than metal piping temporarily pounded into the clay and high chain link fencing wrapped around the property. It stretched over her head by a foot so she needed to find the lock. Studying it for a few moments out of caution, she found her way to the left side where it appeared to be connected to a metal pole to keep it locked. She paused before she touched it though because something else caught her eye.

It had already been cut once. The lock itself was positioned carefully as if someone wanted to make it appear like there was nothing wrong upon first glance. But that wasn't the main concern. It just proved that they were in the right direction for the first time in three days. No, it was actually the bundled wires barely hidden under sand and clay against the bottom ridge of the fence that troubled her. She followed it carefully to find that it disappeared under the fence and somewhere inside the complex, then it was connected to a jumper wire clamp placed on the bottom.

Beth felt her heart drop in her stomach at the sight. It was an alarm of some kind. The unsub was probably inside one of the six houses at that very moment. And the alarm would have notified him to their presence and given him time to escape before they could even open the fence.

"Rawson! I need that massive brain of yours now!" She hissed as she turned and waved at the sniper through the windshield.

He stared at her in confusion for a second before realization kicked in. On his way out, Beth caught sight of his strangely beloved cap being tossed on the passenger seat. The slam of the driver door announced his footsteps as he rushed towards her, rounding the front of the SUV and removing the clasp from his holstered weapon at his hip. Beth just pointed at the clamp and he followed it without question, tracking the wires wordlessly as a frown tightened his features. "Bloody hell." He mumbled to himself. Then crouched in front of the clamp and drew a folded knife from a sheath in his boot.

"Can you disable it?" She questioned as she crouched next to him, watching the way his fingers flipped the knife open effortlessly. It was a combat weapon, carved wooden handle chipped in places and stained at the hilt. The insignia on the far end of one side was not the standard SAS marking she had seen before. If anything, it probably wasn't a sign of a publicly recognized SAS team at all due to the dragon and knives etched around the letters _SO2_. She made a mental note to have Garcia run it through the known database to quell her curiosity once the case was over.

He glanced at her with a shrug, then started pushing away the surrounding sand to get a better visual. "Maybe. Depends on how creative and paranoid he wanted to be. Notice how I'm not actually touching the fence or wires yet? For all I know, he could be generating a current through the metal. In essence, he could have created his own electric fence as a precaution. And I'd rather not get electrocuted. "

"But you can cut the wires…"

Mick interrupted by holding up his knife in wait, urging her to stand and step back. "Sure I could. One of two things will happen. I'll either get electrocuted, or alert the unsub to our arrival. Neither of which sounds pleasant." Another wave of his knife had her standing and reaching for her cell phone in her jeans pocket to get a better estimate of when the backup would arrive. "So just stand back for a minute until I figure it out. Coop will kill me if ya get electrocuted on the first case. Injury isn't a very good motivator to stay on the team."

Beth huffed an exaggerated sigh as she opened her phone. Her fingers dialed Cooper's cell phone number absentmindedly, but stopped as soon as the machine beeped in her hands. "There's no signal." She muttered in bewilderment. Mick's cell phone worked just two miles from the gate when her teammates were contacted. Yet there was no signal, not even roaming, at all. That led to only conclusion. "He's blocked cell phone signals in the area somehow. I can't get a single bar to get ETA on backup." She announced worriedly.

Mick worked the tip of his knife under the wires in a small area of Earth cleared from it, biting his lip as he retorted uneasily, "Figured as much. Take a step back."

She wanted to question why, but the nervousness and position of the blade near the wires spoke volumes more than he could have said in half the time. The risks outweighed the benefits and she _wanted _to protest adamantly about his actions.

He was a skilled sniper. Someone who understood the unsub better than anyone else qualified to take the case because he could read the unsubs' work effectively. And he seemed to have extensive knowledge of how certain weapons operated. That included electricity. He was qualified to handle cutting a few wires, no matter the risk. At least, she hoped he knew what the hell he was doing.

They were running out of time and patience to find the unsub. If they had him cornered like they thought, then it was only a matter of time before he ran again because he realized that his hideout was compromised. An opportunity to end the case now rather than later presented itself and neither wanted to let it slip by.

So she stepped back and steeled herself for what she was sure could have been an unfortunate lightshow. But it never happened.

Mick's knife sliced through the wires as if they were butter, disconnecting the tie between whatever they ran to and the fence with a flinch as he squeezed his eyes shut. When nothing physically happened, he peered one eye open to look at the ground in disbelief. A relieved grin followed a heavy sigh and lasted for as long as it took him to stand and fold the knife closed. "That was unexpected." He breathed once the knife was secured in his jeans pocket.

"Thank you captain obvious." The retort was harsher than she intended. True, she was relieved that he didn't electrocute himself. But the unsub had to know they were coming. It wasn't Mick's fault per say, and she knew disabling the alarm was their only method to get into the complex. Time was running out though. She didn't know how much time they had before he disappeared, and she hoped they could stop him before it came to that point.

The younger man rolled his eyes as he crossed the hood of the van to the driver seat, motioning for her to retake the passenger seat, and responded with equal sarcasm, "You're not welcome. Next time you get to disable the potentially dangerous electric fence."

* * *

Charlie Hicks owned a 1980 Ford Mustang that was used for travel to and from crime scenes. It had been renovated over the past ten years. A side project he focused on between his school days. According to records, it belonged to his father during the 1980s and was given to him for his fifteenth birthday. Hicks spent two years rebuilding the basic framework with what little money he could get from odd jobs. The engine had to be torn apart and reassembled with parts found at a scrap yard. Used seats taken from a similar vehicle had been scrubbed clean replaced the older ones, and he had even managed to build a CD player that mounted in the dash and worked with the speakers he adjusted. The last thing needed was a fresh coat of charcoal black paint and wax.

It was his pride and joy above his scientific curriculum. Something, like his theories, he protected with everything he had. Wherever he went, the car was likely parked just around the corner in wait for his return.

That's what pointed Beth in the correct direction of the house he was hiding in.

It was parked in a gravel driveway beside the last house on the property, covered by what appeared to be a sheet of plastic taken from the unfinished building. Upon first glance, it looked to be nothing more than another abandoned stack of bundled water piping shielded from the elements. Much like those she had seen in the other driveways. But as Mick drove the SUV closer, she realized that the black tinge beneath plastic wasn't from piping at all. It was paint, and the slightest glint of silver reflecting in the brutal sunlight belonged to the rims of the tires peeking through.

Like the other properties, the houses were still obviously unfinished. All but two had the walls installed above a concrete basement, probably used for some type of bomb shelter which would explain why they were marked as private. Holes in the walls mimicked doors and windows that had yet to be installed. Beams of wood acted as a roof but Beth doubted they stopped the occasional rain storm from leaking through. There was no grass lawns or situated walk path to the front door. Just clay and sand and rock. They were most likely bought and designed by wealthy contributors that were paranoid in some fashion. Which made them the perfect targets to hide Hicks' work.

She jumped excitedly at the sight and waved a hand at Mick, accidentally connecting it with his arm and causing him to flinch. The mumbled curse was ignored as she pointed to it and ordered him to stop the van. Then checked the signal on her cell phone once more in hopes that she could notify backup on the current location.

Mick drew his gun when she pocketed the phone with a disappointed expression. "Backup doesn't know which house to look for and we've got no way to contact them. That's just _great_." He read her expression easily and matched it, one hand still attached to the steering wheel while his fingers drummed carelessly. The rather ugly hat he was fond of had been replaced on his head, and Beth resisted the urge to take it from him and discard it with promise of a new one that didn't smell terrible.

Beth knew that he was calculating the scene, playing the best and worst scenarios to find the most desirable way to approach. But they didn't have time for him to ponder every possible outcome. So she drew her own weapon and checked the clip, then slid towards him and snaked her hand to the keys dangling from the ignition. "I'm sure you've had to deal with worse." She stated as she removed the keys and stuffed them in her pocket. "You're a _bad-ass_ sniper, so act like it." She pushed the passenger door open and stepped out, grinning at his surprised gaping expression before slamming the door.

He exited the van, tossing his hat on the passenger seat once more beforehand, and crossed the hood with his gun in hand to follow her even pace towards the house. "What's that supposed to mean?" He asked as dark eyes scanned the area attentively behind sweat slicked sunglasses.

It meant exactly as it sounded. He had been somewhat _moody_ since earlier that morning and Beth assumed it was caused by lack of sleep and coffee. As the day carried on, she grew less lenient about the behavior. To only make matters worse, he seemed to have been sympathetic towards the unsub based solely on the idea that the unsub shared an understanding of advanced science that he found amazing. Meaning when the time came to defend those around him, there was bound to be a moments delay.

Snipers weren't allowed time to _think_ about the kill for that very reason. Victims were justified in some form. Questioning who they were given orders to kill, who the unfortunate person was in the eyes of everyone else, was the beginning of the end for a high profile sniper.

Beth knew that quite well thanks to the years of profiles she had read when she was told that she would be working with a sniper. So it bothered her to think that Mick had fallen into that trap of humanity.

"It means that you need to stay focused." She answered as they approached the car cautiously. Squinting behind her own sunglasses, she peered at the covered muscle car to confirm that it was unoccupied. Then allowed Mick to take lead and readjusted her tight grip on the gun clasped in her hands and pointed at the ground. The clip of her boots against the heated Earth was drowned in the rhythm of Mick's own, keeping her attention divided between him and the area. She clarified as he tensed, seemingly at her response although she had a feeling it was for a different reason. "You've got this fascination for the unsubs' scientific studies and theories, which is understandable. But it's got you distracted."

He paused abruptly, standing rigidly and staring at the far end of the driveway were it wrapped behind the structure. It wasn't until Beth felt the hair on the back of her neck stand that she realized what was happening. There was a static in the air that he sensed before her, the unmistakable ring of electricity, like the atmosphere was charged in the beginnings of an approaching lightening storm. The smell of burning rubber and wires was faint, but confirmed it all the same.

Time for conversation was ended as soon as Mick signaled for her to take the front of the house while he checked the back. They weren't following protocol because they were limited on choices. One person to cover the front and back, and corner the unsub was standard. But it dangerous without backup. Especially considering the weapon the unsub wielded.

Mick was the superior fighter between the two. Which meant that if the unsub was in the back like she feared, he was going to walk into a trap. He could defend himself without breaking a sweat, or at least Beth kept reminding herself as she rushed to the front cutout of the door and pressed herself against the wooden wall in wait. She had seen the way he sparred with Prophet and Cooper. The way he was fast and agile on his feet when challenged, ruthless to win despite the fact that both men had him beat in size considerably. He didn't fight fair because in reality, there was no such thing as a _fair_ fight.

He would be fine. As long as he didn't engage the unsub directly and electrocute himself.

Beth swallowed back the thought and drew a heavy breath. The atmosphere was thick and heavy in her lungs, too stiff from the heat to breathe properly. She held her breath as she turned the corner and swept into the home fluently, silently anticipating the unsub to be waiting for her just beyond the wood with his science-fiction-electrocuting-machine. Instead all she found was an empty entrance room. Wooden pillars were spread from one end to the other as far as she could see to hold the second floor in place. Walls of plywood outlined individual rooms with open doorways. Light poured through gaping holes, heating the confined area until it was almost unbearable.

She exhaled as she started for the closest room. Her boots clicked on the rough hardwood beneath her feet, the sound echoing through the home with a discernible hollow tone. It smelled of sawdust and sweat, and Beth resisted the urge to cover her nose in disgust. But beyond all of that, she smelled coffee and rubber. It was faint, seemingly originating from the kitchen area on the opposite side of the home, and telling as to the unsubs' environment between kills.

Clearing every room she passed on her way, she placed herself against the outer kitchen wall beside the open doorway. The moment her back connected with the wood, her hair began to rise from the present static in the air. That wasn't the worst of her worries though. Yes, the unsubs' weapon was probably in the next room on whatever charger Mick theorized about. But the pacing footsteps were impatient on the flooring, heavy and quick just on the opposite side of the wall.

The moment she considered revealing her position and announcing that she was FBI, there was a new set of boots on the floor barreling into the room from what Beth assumed was the backdoor. She turned at the sound, instinctively knowing it was Mick, and raised her gun in warning at the unsub.

Hicks was just as the photos from his days at the college implied; roughly Mick's height with hardly any muscle to defend against the other man. He looked terrified as he froze in front of the partially built kitchen island that had yet to have the stove-top installed, grayish blue eyes darting between the two agents. The heat didn't seem to bother him as much as Beth, seeing as sweat was a thin sheen over his brow that matted tangled dirty blond hair and stained the gray tee shirt. He shifted anxiously, scuffing his hiking boots on the floor and the baggy legs of his jeans together.

Everything about his posture said that he was going to run. He was going to do something that bought him an escape. The equipment scattered on the counters were unrecognizable to Beth. Wires and electrodes, car batteries and motors disassembled, a few fans whirling from a running generator on the floor, even a pot of what she thought was the rubber insulator he used for his machine burned into a malleable paste, those were transparent in the mess. But the machine on the kitchen island was foreign. It was riddled with wires and plugs and chips that she couldn't separate. But it was also plugged into the generator, which meant that it was the weapon.

And Hicks hovered his hands over a single metal rod.

Mick eyed the machine with a mixture of intrigue and uncertainty. Then loosened his hold on his weapon to lower it a few inches. Beth's befuddled expression received a quick nod in understanding as he held one hand out from his weapon. "It's okay, mate. We're FBI, and I'm not going to shoot you. Just step back from the machine…" He kept his voice low and calm, but there was no way to hide the tension thickening his accent.

Hicks shook his head adamantly and interrupted bitterly, "This is my work. You're not taking it." He grasped the metal rod before the sentence completely left his mouth, brandishing it outwards towards the agents while his fingers wrapped around the rubber handle.

Beth jumped back instantly, her own finger brushing the trigger of her weapon. She had never killed anyone with the weapon before. There was only one other time where she had discharged it during a case and it made contact with another person. But he lived, albeit with a limp. And she didn't _want _to change that record.

Mick did the same, backing up until the heels of his boots were inches from the basement stairs doorway. "Wait! Let's not do anything stupid, eh." He said with a new urgency to his voice. "Let's talk. No one's going to steal your work. It's brilliant, really, and no one else could possible sell it as their own anyways. They're not that smart. So just put that down and we'll talk about your designs. I saw the solar panels you set up outside. That's what you use to keep everything running and charged, yeah? I've read some of your work, mate. It's impressive."

The unsub narrowed his eyes in distrust, and Beth could see that he didn't believe a word Mick was saying. But he lowered the rod back to the table regardless. "You actually understand? What university did you go to? Oxford or Cambridge?"

Mick's expression fell at the question, his stance changing into a more defensive measure as he exchanged a nervous look with Beth. It was a trick question, or at least Beth thought it had to be, one that she had wondered since she found that he was much smarter than he showed the world. He didn't want to answer the question, and the pause between them portrayed that. Hicks wanted to see if Mick was being truthful about his understandings or if he was simply reciting what he memorized like a con artist to a mark. Mick had to say something though. So he shrugged and forced a smirk. "Does it matter? I understand…"

"Then answer the damned question!" Hicks demanded roughly.

"Neither. I never went to a university. Got into some trouble when I was seventeen and they gave me a deal to get out of it so I wouldn't have to spend my life in a bloody jail cell. I never got the chance like you did. But we can make a deal to get you out of this…" The sniper rattled quickly, raising his gun slowly.

"Figured you were lying. They always lie."

That was the last thing Beth heard before a deafening crack of electricity cut through the air, piercing her eardrums until she thought she had lost her hearing completely. She fired the gun instinctively, heard and saw the bullet hit Hicks in the upper right side of his chest, watched him stagger in shock and sudden pain before making a dash for the back doorway and into the backyard, but couldn't do anything to stop him. The damage was already done and she was too shocked to move.

Mick was gone, thrown down the stairs by a bolt of electricity strong enough to leave her hair on end and buzz through the air like a lightening storm had just erupted in the confines of the home. She heard him tumble down the wood before he hit the bottom concrete floor. Heard the crack of what she hoped wasn't bone and the audible sound of air leaving his lungs in a muffled cry.

And all she could do was stare at the spot he had been standing seconds before.


	8. Sympathetic Part 2

Criminal Minds Suspect Behavior Drabble Series

Intermission

Sympathetic

Summary- Sympathy is only natural in a healthy mind. But sometimes it's not wanted.

Rated teen for themes. Nothing explicit though. There are no pairings exactly. It could be read as Mick/Beth. This does follow my own series so the obvious pairing would be Mick/Gina if she were more than a mention in this one. Because this takes place a week after Beth joined the team, I felt that it was necessary to tell this from her perspective. The unsub will probably have a use in my main story line later, or a future one-shot, because I like him. I think there's a lot more I can do with him.

I don't own anything involving Criminal Minds Suspect Behavior. Unfortunately. If I did, the team would have continued their investigations on TV. And they probably would have focused on Mick because I _don't _have an obsession. It's not an _obsession_, right? Ha! Who am I fooling? It is a freakish obsession. Anyways, the only things I do claim are my imagination and creations. I am just borrowing everything else for my own entertainment and practice. No one beta reads my stuff so any spelling and grammar mistakes are my own. Please don't verbally kill me for a typo.

Also, I am not a scientist (although my dad and I tend to discuss theories and news often, and I have an addiction for science fiction shows) so if any of the scientific stuff doesn't actually work in real life, I apologize. This can almost be counted as science fiction. Almost. I'd have to kill someone and bring them back to be satisfied enough to call it science fiction though…which brings me to an idea for a Fringe crossover one-shot.

Now, enough of my ramblings. To the story!

* * *

Sympathetic Part 2

_The symptoms of electrocution vary depending on key variables. Age, body mass, medical history, what type of current was used to electrocute, and where the electricity entered and exited. Treating electrocution until help arrives requires concentration and the ability to notice minor changes in the victim. If the victim is still alive, although heart rate is inconsistent, then the current probably missed the heart. Keep them still. They will most likely suffer from tingling in the limbs or a burning sensation in muscles that will make them want to get up and walk it off. Change in skin tone should also be noted because it could be a sign of seizures or something worse like a brain hemorrhage. Keep them talking no matter how jumbled or nonsensical they sound, and keep an eye on blood pressure and heart rate. Confusion, dizziness, nausea, and disorientation is expected. Be prepared for them to ask the same question multiple times after you already answer it and remember to be patient. If they suffered a fall, don't let them sleep no matter how much they desperately want to. And most importantly, do not leave them alone to their own devices without seeing a doctor first. _

Beth had first heard those words during a mandatory class at the FBI academy when she was twenty three. The professor was a short, portly man from Wisconsin that worked as a triage doctor in Africa after his twenty year stint in the FBI. He returned for a year to work at the academy because his son had enlisted. One of the students brought up the question of electrocution based on the course they were studying pertaining to unsubs who used cattle prods and such to subdue their victims and what to do should one be cornered with the weapon. He spoke in monotone, which was hard to stay awake through, and was often not tolerant to the occasional joke at his expense.

Years ago, she barely made it through the class. She didn't pay nearly as much attention as she should have because that monotone was impossible to listen to. There were notes passed from other students that she kept up on tests with. And she wouldn't admit it for fear of causing ridicule, but she did have a tape recorder that she used when she was lacking on coffee and sleep. That became her best investment over the course of the academy.

Unfortunately, with the current situation shot to hell quite literally, she was silently kicking herself for not memorizing everything the professor ever said.

Reality snapped back after what felt like an eternity.

She was still standing in the unfinished kitchen, staring at the open doorway with wooden stairs leading down to a concrete basement, and absolutely lost for words. The machines and generator Hicks used just seconds ago had started a quiet hissing noise as if they were shutting themselves off. There was still the stench of burned rubber, coffee, sweat, and charred skin that stung her nose in the static laden air. And that, she determined with a sickening feeling in the pit of her stomach, was the reason for harsh reality slapping her in the face.

Hicks was gone, bleeding from a bullet wound in the right side of his upper chest and trying to escape. Beth doubted he would get very far before blood loss and shock took hold. Backup was still almost twenty minutes away. Add to the fact that they didn't have any signal on cell phones and it would take another several minutes to determine which house they were in, she gauged more than ten minutes more. Most importantly, Mick was at the bottom of the basement stairs after being electrocuted by the same machine that killed more than five people.

He could have been dead while she stood there, trying to figure out what the _hell_ just happened.

Actually _dead. _As in _never coming back. _

Mick was an arrogant, egotistical ass at times. He got under her skin and made her squirm just to laugh at her. It was childish, _he _was childish, and annoying in every way possible. But she didn't want him to _die_. If anything, he was the comical relief for the team. The kid at the front of the class that always cracked jokes for attention and flirted with every girl that so much as looked at him. But you always knew that there was trouble behind the masks of smile and laughs that he hid like his life depended on it. Beth would have missed him immensely if he ever disappeared. Not that she was going to admit aloud, of course.

Logically, if she were to follow protocol, apprehending Hicks before he escaped should have been her next action. She should have apprehended him and called for backup and an ambulance once she found a way to get a signal on her cell phone. There was no way she could follow protocol though.

Instead she slammed her gun back in the holster on her hip, not caring that it wasn't locked, and ran for the basement stairs. They were wooden, much like the rest of the unfinished house, and creaked under her boots. The interior was cooler than above but not by more than a few degrees. Light was dim and somehow just enough to see without the need of a flashlight from the SUV parked across the street. On the sixth step down, just four before the bottom, her foot almost fell through freshly splintered wood. The crack she heard seconds after Mick was thrown down the stairs by a bolt of electricity could have originated from that broken plank.

She hoped it was.

Mick was at the bottom, one arm tucked under his back and the attaching shoulder clearly dislodged as if he had tried to break his fall on instinct, the other twitching in time with muscles against the concrete by his side. His legs were no better due to the awkward position that was probably going to leave him sore for the next several days. With his head pressed against the concrete floor and turned away from her uncomfortably, she couldn't see if he was awake or not. It was almost ridiculous to think that he was. However, she realized that his luck was not quite expected considering he was still breathing, his chest rising and falling rapidly under the ruffled red button up.

Beth jumped the last two stairs over him and landed a foot away, bracing herself on the nearby wall as her boots slid on dirt and sand. She dropped to her knees a moment later and muttered a curse. Her hands hovered over his shoulder, unsure of what to do exactly. It wasn't until she caught the hint of red starting to pool beneath the dark sweat slicked hair that she realized why he wasn't awake yet. She shifted his head with a hiss of sympathy for him to see the wound just above his ear, where the skin had split open when his head connected with concrete. She couldn't be sure if he connected with the wall opposite the stairs before landing or the floor itself. Neither of which really mattered though.

"Rawson, get the hell up now!" She hissed as she shook his shoulder desperately, voice shaking in spite of herself. "Mick! See, I'll start calling you Mick instead of Rawson. Unless you think only Gina and Prophet and Sam can because you've got some weird personality quirks." She rambled for a moment as she continued shaking him. When he didn't do more than twitch from the current still constricting muscles, she snaked her fingers against the pulse point in his neck and started counting.

He jerked at her touch, eyes flying open in a dazed panic to bounce around his surroundings. Beth flinched away and held her hands out in reflex as his hand reached for the empty gun holster at his hip. The movement stopped just before his fingers found it. Dark eyes settled on her, but she could see that they were unfocused and slightly bloodshot. They stared at each other for a few moments as he tried to get his bearings.

"You're not going to die on me, Mick?" She questioned as she put herself in his field of vision, keeping her hands where he could see them because she knew he had an unspoken rule about people he didn't trust physically touching him. It was tormented by Prophet, who didn't really follow the rule on most occasions when he walked past and slapped the younger man on the back just to watch him flinch.

His features contorted in a mixture of confusion and shock, mouth opening and closing a few times as he swallowed convulsively. "I thought you thought my name was Rawson? What happened?" He asked gruffly, accent thick on his tongue and slurred into something Beth almost didn't understand. "We're in Arizona, right?"

Beth could have grinned in relief had the forgetfulness not been so troublesome. "Hicks zapped you with his death machine. You've got the damnedest luck because you're still alive, somehow. But you got thrown down the stairs and it looks like that hurts." She gave a pointed nod to the arm trapped under his back and the dislocated shoulder.

Mick sucked in a heavy breath, wincing at the motion, and twisted himself just enough to slide the arm to the side and out from under him. His complexion turned paler as his eyes slid shut. For a moment Beth feared he slipped out of consciousness again. But his mumbled curse and following question contradicted that. "Ya ever reset a shoulder before?"

Having a father as a medical professional had taught Beth quite a few things over the years. Despite the fact that they hadn't spoken since she graduated high school. The signs of a brain tumor, for instance, or the first hints of a seizure were not simplistic but she knew what to look for if she was pressed to. But her father was a brain surgeon. He had never discussed how to relocate a shoulder, and that was one course she didn't remember the details of from her academy days.

At her long stretch of silence he sighed and looked up at her. "I'll take that as a no. Help me up then. I'll tell you how." He held out his good hand inches off the concrete, the muscles still shaking and fingers curled inward slightly. The hand itself was the cause of the disgusting charred flesh smell she tried to push away. Skin had been singed in the entire palm, turned an ugly black and raw red as it swelled blood between curled fingers. He studied it in disturbing fascination for a moment. "Huh. I can't feel it."

Beth wasn't stupid though. She knew moving him, despite what he wanted, was a horrible idea until help arrived. He could have suffered something more than just a nasty head wound and a dislocated shoulder from the fall and shock. Moving would have only made things worse. Granted, a dislocated shoulder supposedly felt just as bad as a broken limb and head wounds bled quite a lot in themselves. But still, there _could_ have been something worse.

"Backup should be here within the next thirty minutes. Gina and Prophet are going to show up within the hour…"

"You can help or I'll do it myself." He interrupted the excuse determinately. When he rose into a sitting position with strength Beth didn't think he could repeat, he listed sideways and pressed his hand against the wound in his head, running his fingers down his neck to follow the blood trail. "That explains the migraine." He leaned back against the railing of the step, staring at the concrete wall just over her head as he was lost in his own head again.

Beth watched him intently, nervously chewing on her lip. Then sighed heavily in defeat and stood, crouching beside him. She grasped his wrist, which had been held against his torso to refrain from moving the shoulder, and found his pulse point again. Heart rate was irregular and fast, which meant blood pressure was probably too high as well. At that rate, she guessed he could have crashed at any moment if a stressor was inadvertently pushed.

Mick jumped after a few silent minutes, instinctively pulling his wrist from her grasp and scowling at her. "What the bloody hell are you doing? Get off me!" He shoved her away by her shoulder roughly with his free hand, scanning the concrete basement in new curiosity and fear. "Where are we? What happened?"

Amnesia. It had to be temporary and not severe considering he seemed to remember the events just minutes before he was electrocuted. So that only led to the conclusion that it was short term caused by the smack to his head and the electrocution.

In short, Beth needed to get him out of the basement and to a hospital as soon as possible.

Beth regained her balance and stood, running a hand through her hair and perching other on her hip. "Okay, I'll make this quick because I doubt you're going to remember in about five minutes again. You were electrocuted by Hicks' death machine. Somehow you're still alive though so you have the most bizarre luck I have ever seen. That wound that's ruining your shirt is from when he fell and smacked your head on the concrete. And you dislocated your shoulder in the process. Backup, with Gina and Prophet will be here soon. In the meantime I think we should try to stop you from bleeding to death. Then we'll worry about the shoulder. Did you understand all of that?" She prattled off the information with a sort of frustration that he honestly didn't deserve. Then pointed to his shirt and carried on, "I hope you're wearing an undershirt that you don't care about. We'll need to make a bandage out of it."

He blinked at her several times, as if trying to decide if he was dreaming or not, then gave a short nod and grimaced. "Combat knife's in my right boot." He stated hoarsely as his left hand started fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. It was almost strange how he didn't argue or question what was happening. Beth had the unsettling feeling he had been in a situation similar to this before though. Probably not electrocuted, but suffered from amnesia once before and he remembered the way he was talked to during it.

Crouching in front of his outstretched feet, she withdrew the knife from the sheath carefully and flipped it open. It was heavier than portrayed when Mick wielded it. The blade seemed to glow in the natural dimmed hue of the basement, but the stained hilt caused a moment of pause as she studied it and the insignia carved on the handle.

"Yes, that's someone's dried blood. No, it doesn't come out. I've tried everything short of a solvent because I don't want the metal to weaken." He answered her unspoken question as trembling fingers fought with the third button down. His tone was indifferent, as if he didn't care that it had maimed someone before, and Beth frowned at it.

"And the insignia? I've never seen it." She asked in hopes to change the subject and keep him talking.

He drew another deep breath as he replied. "SAS Special Operations Team Two. Stationed in Iraq between 2002 and 2004. And before you ask, it's classified by the British government. So if I tell anyone about classified missions than I could be executed by a firing squad or lethal injection for treason. I think that's a good incentive to keep my mouth shut."

Beth nodded her agreement, allowing the data to sink in as she reached forward and silently asked his permission to help him unbutton the shirt. He huffed a frustrated sigh and looked down at his fingers as if they had betrayed him. Then mumbled for her to go ahead as he rested his head against the railing again. "In 2002, you were only nineteen." She stated to gather his attention before he slipped and forgot where he was again.

"Like I said to Hicks, got into some trouble when I was seventeen. The government didn't appreciate the fact that I almost killed a rapist with an illegal rifle. Bastard deserved it though. I won in the end. He's paralyzed from the neck down, so I say that's just what he deserves. Death would have been the easy way out."

Beth froze abruptly and stared at him with wide eyes, taken back by his words. She didn't know for sure, but she had the suspicion that he had a rough childhood. It was written in the small things he did. Things that made sense with the disgusting scenario running through her head. The unwillingness to let others touch him, the violent tendencies, the desire to hide his real IQ from others, and the need to always move and be in control, it all spoke of severe abuse in the past. Someone had hurt him in ways she didn't _want_ to imagine. So he was constantly protecting himself in fear that it could have happened again.

"That's why you don't let people touch you unless you trust them? You were…"

He shook his head adamantly, although the motion made him list to the side again, and a sickening expression scrunched his features. "Of course not. It wasn't me or my other siblings. We were lucky, I guess. And it's not some kind of _phobia_ like Prophet keeps saying. I'm just not fond of being held down."

"Then why did you shoot him?" It was a valid question, she thought as she finished the last button and sat back on her heels. One that she realized he wasn't going to answer. She was intrigued though and wanted to know what the hell happened. Whatever it was left him with a contract for the British military when he was only seventeen and a natural fear of restraint in general. Something could have happened to the siblings he mentioned, although it was Beth's first time hearing that he had family at all, let alone more than one sibling. He probably never would have mentioned it had it not been for the electricity that altered his mental state.

"Forget I said anything." He mumbled as he leaned forward to snatch the knife her hands. She observed enough to realize what he meant exactly. Sympathy from others wasn't tolerated, hence why he never discussed the troubles he had been in over the years. It was a weakness, something shameful and unspoken for the sake of his pride, and Beth couldn't complain about the idea.

She had never spoken about her mother and brother's deaths. That night when they didn't return home and she and her father paced anxiously and called every number that could have been used to contact them, when her father ordered her to her room when the police came to the door and she heard him wail like a broken hearted child at the news, the funeral her father attended drunk and she had to walk him home. None of that was ever talked about. It couldn't be. She wouldn't let it.

At the time, she would have killed anyone that showed her sympathy. Unfortunately it was everyone she came in contact with.

Beth pulled away from him, keeping the knife just out of his reach as she shook her head. "You honestly think I'm going to let you use a knife when you can't even uncurl your fingers?" She questioned stiffly. "Sure, I'll let you cut off the damned undershirt with a razor sharp knife just so you can stab yourself in the process. That sounds like a great idea." Sarcasm was obviously not appreciated as he cursed her in Welsh. But he had dangled a query in her face, a mystery she wouldn't have been able to let go even if she wanted to. So a little annoying sarcasm at his expense was justifiable in her mind.

"It's _my_ knife."

"And Sam would kill me with it if I let you stab yourself." She countered as he reached for it again. "Unless you're self-conscious or something. You keep flirting with Gina and I've heard about the one-night-stands. So I'm guessing embarrassment isn't the problem."

He narrowed his eyes and dropped his hand into his lap dejectedly, chewing his bottom lip for a moment in thought. "Fine. But this never gets spoken to anyone. Not even Cooper."

Beth nodded quickly as she returned to his side, folding her legs under her as she sat on the uncomfortable concrete. For a man that didn't seem to trust more than a few people in the entire world, he appeared oddly complacent. His posture loosened, although still shook, as she started cutting the sweat drenched gray undershirt along the side seam, pulling fabric away from skin as carefully as possible to avoid accidentally poking him with the knife. It didn't make sense. So she paused for a moment to look up at him, and felt herself frown heavily at the unfocused eyes trained on the wall opposite him.

She was left to herself for several minutes. He slipped again after a longer time frame of being alert. Beth wasn't sure what that meant, but she was beginning to worry they were running out of time. She quickened her pace at removing the undershirt, being less gentle as urgency pressed on her nerves. He was going to wake again and not remember where he was or what was happening. Panic was going to follow, which wasn't advisable considering his unsteady blood pressure. She had to keep him calm once that happened. If he saw her with a knife too close to himself and misinterpreted, things could have ended very differently.

The material slid off once she cut through the last seam on the shoulder strap. She pulled it from behind him, bunching it into her free hand as she set the knife on the concrete beside her legs. Her eyes fell back to him, watching for a moment for signs that he was going to be alert soon. But they slid downwards despite how much she internally told herself not to.

Gina would have found the tanned toned muscles and hair on his chest appealing, Beth was sure. But she was more drawn to the scars outlined by the sweat on his skin. Some were so old that they were fading into barely noticeable lines. Others, such as the obvious remnants of a stab wound in his lower left abdomen, were relatively recent. One over his appendix was telling, long and fading with the years, insinuating that he didn't have an appendix anymore. Smaller wounds were consistent with bullets and wayward knives and surgeries he would never discuss with anyone, all healed and disappearing in various degrees. With one shoulder of his shirt pulled aside slightly, she could see a glimpse of a bicep that was in no better condition. It wasn't lined with tattoos like she pictured, but a mess of fading scars that led to the conclusion of a chemical acid burn years old. As if he had a tattoo at one point, but it was burned off.

She had gotten tattoos herself when she was a teenager. Reminders of her rebellious teenage years that didn't quite sound believable with her personality after she joined the FBI. She knew that removing them was expensive and left scars in their wake. But most people use laser treatments to remove them safely. Chemical acids were a last desperate resort. The only time she had seen it was during a case years ago, when an unsub used acid to burn away skin containing tattoos on his rape victims. It was excruciatingly painful, like being burned alive, and Beth couldn't imagine Mick would do that willingly.

That explained why he always wore long sleeved shirts, even when sparring or on abnormally hot summer days. No one would ask about the scars if they couldn't see them.

She tore her gaze away and refocused her thoughts on the priorities. Using the knife, she started shredding the undershirt into strips and bundled two into a makeshift pressure bandage. Then placed it against the seeping wound hesitantly, holding it in place for several moments as she watched him for any change in expression or posture. When he didn't respond she counted his heartbeat with her fingers against his neck again.

Mick flinched a moment later, listing away from her and towards the floor. He blinked sightlessly as she wrapped her fingers around his forearm to cease his movements. Then attempted to look at her by turning his head. Beth kept the bandage in place with one hand as she moved into his line of sight, interrupting the beginnings of his questions. "Yes, you were electrocuted and fell into the basement. No, you can't get up and chase after Hicks. He's wounded and probably won't make it more than a mile before blood loss gets to him. Backup should be here within the next ten minutes."

He swallowed convulsively for the second time and nodded. The movement brought notice to the bandage and he lifted his hand to smack her own away in annoyance. Once his eyes fell on the remnants of his undershirt and the fact that his own shirt had been opened, panic started to sink in. Shaky fingers attempted to button it back in place while he stared at her with a harsh expression. "Why…"

"Bleeding to death doesn't sound fun to you, does it?" She interrupted sharply as he tried to squirm from the bandage. "Just relax. They're almost here." That was a ploy to get him to calm down, which seemed to work when he realized that his fingers wouldn't cooperate and he slammed his fist against the concrete in frustration.

"So, you were going to tell me why you didn't go to a university." She started the conversation as a way to keep him talking again. Even though it was technically a lie.

In his dazed state, he didn't appear to realize she was lying though. He leaned his head back against the railing and sighed deeply as he answered tiredly, "I don't recall…"

"Hicks asked you if you went to Oxford or Cambridge. You said neither. I've got to say, that's confusing because if you were truthful about understanding Hicks' work, than you could have easily gotten into any university you wanted." She refreshed his memory as she reached for another strip of cloth to tie the bandage in place. Once it was secure she moved to the wound on his hand, using the remaining pieces to wrap around his palm tightly. He didn't flinch at the contact like expected. Meaning he still didn't have feeling in the limb.

"I received a scholarship to both Oxford and Cambridge when I was sixteen." He replied hesitantly at first, then carried on with a faint smile as if the memory was entertaining and exciting. "Won them in a competition against a dozen others from the most wealthy schools in the UK. I didn't exactly fit in though because they all had money behind their projects. All I had was a scrap yard and too much time on my hands. The judges liked my designs on a new kind of rifle that was virtually silent, used decomposable bullets fired at twice the speed as a standard rifle so trace would be impossible after twenty four hours, and compact enough that it fit in a small briefcase."

He paused at the sound of distant sirens, a small noise barely heard around the concrete and wood surrounding them. A relieved grin spread over his features as he shifted to peer up the stairs. "The design was to made it out of compression pulleys and recycled titanium." He continued as he watched Beth wrap his hand. "The bullets would have been filled with concentrated Nitric Acid in a small release shield, so once it pierces bone then the shell breaks and eats the metal. Therefore no trace. All of it was lightweight and flawless, really. It was one of my favorite designs, and it actually worked as far as the prototype. The government took the design and prototype because they claimed that it was too dangerous. That didn't stop me from making a second one though. Of course, that one ended up in their custody too."

Beth finished wrapping his hand and looked at him curiously. "Seriously? You actually designed a stealthy sniper rifle when you were sixteen? Why would you want to do something like that anyways?" She asked as she sat on the concrete beside him, hooking her arms over her legs once they were drawn up to her chest. The ring of sirens weren't lost on her, and she felt herself smile and relax at them.

The implications were enough for Beth to guess. If he received the scholarships but didn't actually attend the schools, and was given a deal by the British military after he shot a man with an illegal rifle, then said rifle was probably his own design. It must have drew the attention of the military and instead of letting someone with the ability to enhance their forces rot in a prison cell for a justifiable crime, they offered a way out. That didn't necessarily explain why he threw away a scholarship to the best universities in the UK to shoot the man.

She doubted she would ever really know.

Mick nodded again and looked at his gray bandage hand in disgust, flexing his fingers tenderly. The shaking was getting better, Beth noticed as she watched him intently. She resisted the urge to check his heart rate again because she knew he didn't appreciate the contact. "Ya know, I think you were right. I got distracted on this case because I could relate with the unsub." He replied quietly.

Surprise formed on her features as she retorted, "Really? You're actually admitting that you were wrong?" She fished her cell phone out of her jeans pocket with a smirk, fumbling with the touch screen to activate the voice recorder. "Say it again for the record."

Despite the mess they were in, the pain Mick couldn't hide, he cracked an exhausted grin and swiped the phone away from his face. "Never."

It didn't matter if he ever said it again or not. The fact that he admitted it to begin with, that he wasn't panicking anymore and actually managed to smile, was enough. As Beth sat and waited for the distant approach of sirens, she knew that was better than the alternative. He didn't trust her and she didn't trust him. They had no reason to trust each other, really. Sympathy portrayed by anyone, for either party, had set them apart from the world because neither _wanted _it. Oddly enough, it was one of the key personality quirk they had in common as well. They knew how to avoid it, which Beth found grateful as time carried on.

For the first time since she began working with a team, she started to feel as if she could work with these teammates. They were different, damned strange at times, but so was she.

At the end of the day, when Hicks was found a mile from the crime scene passed out inside his car and secured in a hospital room a floor down from Mick's own room, one step in the direction of a team she could count on was all that mattered anyways.

* * *

Note- Ta-da! Hello people! I'm back! I know, this is late and so is the new chapter to my main story. There's so many one-shots I have drafted that it's hard to pick just one. I wound up writing the beginnings for four others over the last week before I came up with this. If anyone wants to see a particular one-shot written, let me know.  
Now, this is basically to make the plot bunnies behave. The unsub, Hicks, is an interesting character that I may use later. I like his methodology. That sounds wrong, I know. Mick's hat has a story behind it that will be explained in a future one-shot with Jenna and Liam. There's information on Beth's younger years that plays into the main story line. The actress (which I can't remember the name at the moment and will have to Google again later) does have tattoos. So that's mentioned as part of her rebellious teenage years. The death of her mother and brother is a tragic story and it will get a one-shot later on. As will the consequences it had upon her and her father. I'm of speculating on it a little. In the show (I'll have to watch the episode again later to be sure) it was mentioned that her father was a surgeon. I don't remember if her mother was mentioned or if she had a brother. Then again, with the way the character histories were only scarce mentions, there's a lot of room for speculation. Which gives me more room to play with them.  
I wanted to show that Beth didn't quite trust the team after only a week of working with them. She trusted Sam because there was something about him that was trustworthy. But with the way Mick walled himself off because he personally was still getting adjusted to civilian life and the FBI and being away from home for an undetermined amount of time, trusting everyone else was hard. In the end they kind of have an understanding that helps her get through that. There's a kind of unspoken rule about no outward expressions of sympathy towards each other that really explains their behavior in the main story line. Neither deal with sympathy from others well, and they know that. So the truce is interesting for both characters.  
Now I'm done rambling again. You know what to do, right? Leave a review if you can. A huge thanks to those who have read, reviewed, and subscribed to my stuff so far!


	9. Wake The Dead

Criminal Minds Suspect Behavior Drabble Series

Intermission

Wake The Dead

Summary- The first injection was the hardest. It only worsened after that. The scream wouldn't stop, the gory impossible images of his tormented imagination painted the worst image possible. After a while he just wanted it to stop. He would have done anything to make it stop.

Rated high teen, almost mature, for themes. Things such as explicitness of torture, gore, and cursing were kept to a minimum because I don't want to move this to the mature category. Although this is a bit gorier than my usual… There are no pairings in this one. Liam Holmes is Mick's foster brother, for anyone who may have thought differently. This does take place when Mick was stationed in Iraq in 2004, so there is quite a bit of spoilers for my previous story, Walk Away From The Sun. If you haven't read that yet, then you may be a bit confused as to the sequence of events and who Rais is. No one beta reads my stuff, although I wouldn't refuse a beta reader, so any spelling and grammar mistakes are my own. Please don't verbally kill me for a typo.

Unfortunately for my obsession, I do not own anything involving Criminal Minds Suspect Behavior. I do claim Liam Holmes and Rais though. And my own creations and imagination, of course.

Now, enough of my ramblings. Enjoy!

* * *

Wake The Dead

_Somewhere else. _

Think of somewhere else. Anywhere else. Away from the filth and blood and weapons and needles. Somewhere contradictory to the endless darkness feasting on your senses. Contradictory to the paralyzing wounds and hallucinogenic drugs forced upon you. Gone are the bastards outside and the anticipation of what they'll do next. No more inconsistent punishments that mean everything and nothing. No more pain and disgusting gruel substituting food, unanswerable questions and haunting hallucinations designed to bring your most livid fears to life.

_Just find somewhere else to be. _

But there wasn't anywhere to go.

They had training against this. It was mandatory in Sandhurst, one of the more disturbing requirements to join the British SAS. Knowing what could have happened, what their captures could do and would do to gather information, didn't prepare them. Not really. They had experienced water boarding and basic confinement during training, survival for days on the land with nothing but the clothes on their backs and the bare essentials concealed in their bag over their shoulders. But it wasn't even a percentage of what they were experiencing. It was pretend, a ridiculous effort to associate fact with fiction, and there was no point in denying it. They couldn't have prepared for any of this, no matter what the bloody military put them through in hopes to strengthen their mental resolve.

The beatings weren't the worst. Physical abuse had always been hard to withstand, but Mick Rawson and Liam Holmes had grown numb to it after their last foster home. Punches and bruises were painful. No one could say otherwise. After a while it just turned into a routine of sorts. There was nothing more and nothing less to it. One after the other as they were hung by their chained wrists from a hook on the ceiling, questions repeated in broken English and Arabic and even Farsi that neither Mick or Liam could answer. Bruises burned to the touch upon weathered skin, bones cracked or snapped for the umpteenth time and painfully worn muscles screamed in protest. There was a cattle prod at times, pulsing electricity through their muscles and burning skin, drawing a scream thought to echo the entire underground hellhole.

Somehow, that wasn't the worst.

It was the lack of control and avid hallucinations that was truly worse than anything they could have ever imagined.

Control had been stripped from them in portions. The first few days, they had been in a large locked cell as a team. Injuries were treated by each other, food and water was rationed but the commanding officer in their team, and survival strategies were discussed in bare whispers. After their first escape attempt their captors changed that.

They were separated into individual cells, pitch black and carved into the Earth with degrading brick that rained mortar over their heads on occasions. The floor was coated in sand and grime overtop warm concrete,. Light only entered on occasion when a hanging bulb from the hall was changed after it had burned out, bouncing through the veil of metal bars keeping them confined. For the most part that stayed off though. The arrival of their captors was always announced by the return of light that left them blinded for several minutes. A single absurdly thin mattress stained with God only knew what and balanced on a broken metal frame that scratched skin like barbed wire if brushed against sat in the back corner. In the opposite corner was a hole carved out that reeked of waste and decay. Not from what was expected, but from a decomposing corpse forgotten and left to rot just a foot from the mattress Mick was forced to sleep on.

Except Mick wasn't allowed sleep. There were noises, screams and pleas in languages he didn't recognize, the constant drip of a pipe somewhere outside the cell, boots walking back and forth as flashlights peered into each cell and blinded them, singing from Liam muffled by the walls, and even the distant sounds of a pipe against skin or the jingle of chains as someone resisted. Mick couldn't sleep with those noises running through his head. They were just reminders of what was going to happen to him.

So he settled for staring at the ceiling, pondering escape routes and trying to find a way out of the mess he dug himself into. His eyes had become accustomed to the pitch black and he almost feared that he would never be able to see properly again because of it. Injuries were ignored as he just focused on other matters. The tee shirt he had been wearing was shredded by Liam the day before to be used as a bandage for the seeping burn wounds on his torso. His trousers were cut off at the knees, making them into shorts, and the material had been stashed under the mattress for any other injuries he knew he was going to sustain.

When he was interrogated, he found himself humming a song he had heard a million times or silently reciting as many digits of PI as he could remember. It was only twenty numbers, but when he was in school he could recite the first thirty without a problem. He made it a goal to be able to recite all thirty before the end of the interrogation session. It kept him focused, just not on the task the captors wanted.

Whatever drugs they had been given started on the sixth day. Mick _thought_ it was the sixth. It was impossible to tell, really, because time had seemed to have its own rules. They could have been missing from the British camp they were stationed in for six days or six weeks at that point. Knowing how long they had been in captivity, despite what he recalled from his training, had been simply impossible.

The first injection was the hardest. Mick didn't know what could have happened. At first all he knew was that he was being dragged out of his cell and into another open room, and things were going to get much worse than they already were. It was similar to the room he and his team had spent the first several days in. A camera and tripod was perched near the wall with the metal door. There was no doubt that it was going to record the interrogation session, just as it did every other they were involved in. Two metal chairs and a matching table sat nearby. The table itself was littered with various items Mick couldn't see through the black sack over his head. He didn't need to see it though.

It was time for another round, he concluded as he was dragged to the center of the room and his arms were raised for him. What little amount of restrain he gave by struggling with the chains wrapped around his wrists and ankles and waist was rewarded with a swift blow to the side of his head. He could feel the blood trickle down his chin as dehydrated lips cracked, the long scab along the side of his head splitting just enough to remind him of its presence.

In his dazed state, he couldn't stop the chains from sliding onto the hook above his head. Part of the physical manipulations for answers involved the forceful, and rather excruciating, removal of several nails on his fingers and toes. As bare toes grazed the grimy concrete and the thin disgusting scabs pulled away, he muffled a yelp with a hiss and attempted to ease the pain in his limbs.

Once the sack was removed from his head, he kept his chin against his chest and tried to clear the dizziness. It had been three days since they were given food and water. Mick had always been thinner than someone his age of twenty one should have been. But the outright refusal of food and water by their captors was starting to show. Muscles were becoming more prominent as what little fat he had diminished completely, and that was going to lead to something far worse if he didn't find food and water soon. Meaning he had to answer a question or starve to death. With the way his stomach ached unbearably from lack of nutrition, he was running out of time.

"You do not look well." The statement was snide and full of false concern, broken English unmistakably belonging to Rais, and Mick didn't dare look at him. Mick was horrified, breathing hard enough to make a short whistling noise through his broken nose and grinding his loosened teeth. "I said, you do not look well." He repeated harshly. When Mick didn't respond in any fashion, the older man snapped his fingers to another man Mick assumed was his second in command.

"Let me go! Get the bloody hell off me ya fu…" Liam's shouts grew louder from the hall until they stopped completely, Scottish accent thick and shaking. He didn't complete the curse or continue his struggles against the second in command and the guard dragging him by his chains until he entered the room.

Mick's head pulled up instinctively at his voice, watching in terror as his brother was bound to one of the metal chairs pulled just a few feet from him. He looked between Rais, the guards, and his brother with bulging eyes, trying to disguise his obvious fear of what was going to happen next.

They had been separated since, well, Mick wasn't sure exactly. He knew he hadn't seen Liam or his other teammates in some time. But he did hear them when he was locked in his cell. Now, looking at the bloodied and bruised and appalling sight that was his brother, he understood why.

This was a game of sorts to Rais. There were only two basic ways to break someone. Physical and mental abuse had to be alternated, had to be precise, and Rais obviously knew what the hell he was doing. As much as Mick studied psychology when he was in school, and even through the training exercises, it didn't explain the situation in detail. There was no way it ever could.

Rais just grinned sickly at the brothers. Once Liam was secured by his chains to a hook on the floor and his arms latched to the side arms with more metal, the older man turned back to Mick. "We are going to try something different today." He stated almost gleefully, accent thick and almost impossible to understand. Then snapped at his second in command again. "You both have been rather resilient. All I want to know is the details to several of the past missions you both have worked on. Unfortunately I can not gain access to those details alone, and they are very important to me. So, you see, we are at an impasse."

The second in command readied a long needle at the table, his back turned to the others. Mick could see the flash of metal, the hint of vials being mixed together before being drawn into the syringe carefully. A sinking feeling grew in the pit of his stomach, and he had the horrible feeling about the alternate form of interrogation Rais had just mentioned. The biggest question was how to stop it. Or if he couldn't, then what could he have done to make sure Liam wasn't the target.

Rais took the syringe a few moments later, pushing the plunger to draw the contents to the surface. Then turned his attention to the soldiers again. "They are completed, yes? The missions you both served on, they hold no relevance now. Your government has officially closed the case, so to speak. So I must ask, why not just tell me what I want to know? Why protect closed mission reports?"

Because they had to.

Because the price for divulging information to the enemy, even if held captive and deemed a prisoner of war, was a discharge from the military entirely. It was noted as treason, even if a psychologist proved that they had been mentally broken when giving the information, and the shame alone was enough to ruin someone. Shame from the government and country they devoted their life to, shame from friends who were too ignorant to understand. Worst of all, shame from those labeled as family.

For Mick, it was more than that. He didn't want Jenna to believe that he had been a failure, that her big brother was _weak_. If he screwed up though, if he committed treason in any way, they wouldn't just discharge him with a note in his file that ruined his life. They could have put him in jail for the rest of his days because it broke his contract with the military. Because he wasn't a free man fighting for his country. He had almost killed someone years ago, and sold his freedom to the military to stay out of prison for it. Liam had a reputation to lose. Just as the rest of his teammates. But Mick could have lost everything with one sentence. Jenna, Liam, the O'Connell family, his job as Britain's best sniper, _everything. _

"Why the hell do you want them?" Mick ground out through clenched teeth, shifting the chains slightly in hopes to alleviate the pain in his shoulders.

Rais shrugged, the black worn tee shirt shifting with the motion. He shuffled the stolen black military regulation boots on his feet as he approached Liam. "I suspect you already know the answer to that question." He retorted briskly.

Mick didn't respond for several moments. He watched Liam attentively, breathing through his bent nose in hopes to calm his racing heart. Liam had to know what was going to happen too. Everything Mick learned about the generalization of people, he learned from his brother. So Liam had to know that this was going to end in one of them being injected with the shit in that syringe. It was just a matter of who and how long they could prolong it.

"Why don't ya quit with the damned mind games and just tell us what this is really all about." Liam snapped bitterly, struggling against his own bonds.

The older man narrowed his eyes slightly, furrowing his brow under the dingy brown cap he had acquired from a past victim. "I see. Neither of you are going to give me the information willingly…"

"Took ya this long to realize that? How disappointing. And here I thought ya were an all mighty bastard. Turns out you're just a sick minded bastard like every other mass murderer that gets killed for his crimes. I'll be more than happy to put ya out of your misery…" Mick rattled off as he pulled at his restraints, trying to gain enough momentum to throw the chains off the hook. If his legs weren't so heavy and he had the energy, extracting himself from the hook wouldn't have been a problem.

His insults didn't last for much longer seeing as the second in command had enough of his mouth. The other man grabbed a cattle prod from the table and rushed towards him, the crackle of electricity bouncing between the prongs proving his intentions. Static in the air caused the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end despite the filth and sweat and blood that caked strands against his skin. Mick was caught off guard as the prongs stabbed into his abdomen. Electricity burned his skin and no amount of bucking away stopped it. When it was brought back for a moment, he tried to breath. But it was stabbed into his chest before he could suck in a single breath.

Liam's shouts were drowned in the hoarse scream echoing through the room, quickly followed by Rais' order to stand down. When the cattle prod left his skin, Mick couldn't keep his head up. He allowed his chin to rest against his chest, muscles and limbs still twitching, the scene graying around the edges of his vision as he sagged boneless against the chains. The strength to keep himself upright was sapped away with the electricity, and he wanted nothing more than to fall asleep and never wake up.

"As I was saying, I believe we can come to an agreement." Rais continued once the cattle prod was replaced on the table. He waved the syringe towards Mick as he spoke, stepping away from Liam and towards the younger man. "Apparently I have not made my demands clear." He stopped beside Mick and waved the needle dangerously close to his side. His eyes scanned along the side of cracked and broken ribs, as if trying to locate the heart. "This," He stated as the needle brushed against skin. Mick didn't have the stamina to flinch, despite how much he tried. "Is a concoction of my own design. I have tested it on several others to obtain knowledge as to all of its effects. But it seems to vary with every person. From what I have gathered, it causes hallucinations to the most disturbed minds and even in those who are, or were, mentally sound. The worst side effects are seizures and death. Usually in that order."

"Don't…" Liam hissed in warning as the needle was positioned just under a rib. He watched with wide eyes, incapable of doing anything to stop what was going to happen, and Mick knew it was only going to get worse from there. He himself could feel the needle scratching skin, knew from the angle that it was a straight shot to his heart, and he didn't want to think about the consequences. The brothers had never done drugs like so many others when they were younger. Liam smoked cigarettes and Mick found a love for alcohol early on, but neither had tried more than that. They didn't _want _to.

"So I ask again. Why not save yourself from the troubles of this barbaric interrogation and answer my questions? What do you have to lose?"

Everything. They had everything to lose and nothing to gain. Rais wouldn't let them live if they gave the information. They weren't going to get out that way. Once he had the information he wanted, he didn't have a use for them anymore. No, the only way they were going to stay alive was if they continued to fight. At least until Sam Cooper found them. _If _he ever found them…

Mick could feel Liam's eyes on him, the harsh blues barring into him like he expected something. Anything. To either magically free himself and take out the guards and Rais in the blink of an eye. Or to tell him what to do and say. But Mick didn't know what to do either. They were stuck in a bunker in hell where inhumanity was as routine as waking in the mornings. Their captors were sick minded bastards that preferred a torture session rather than civilized interrogations. Any escape attempts Mick devised resulted in the same scenario of death for one or more of them, no matter how many times he worked the plans through his head. And the only chance of escape and survival relied on a man he barely knew, and the ability to keep their mouths shut to and remain valuable to their captors.

So no, he had no escape plan for the first time in his life. All he had was the logical rationality to remain silent. One that he prayed Liam read as he locked eyes with his brother and shook his head a few inches.

Liam looked away after a few moments, dropping his gaze to the floor. He seemed to visibly deflate, posture still tense but shoulders drooping in submission. And Mick felt like screaming at him for it. He couldn't tell them. Liam couldn't give up everything just to save his ass. _Not again. _"Put that down, then we'll talk. Like rational people." He replied through clenched teeth, avoiding eye contact with Mick.

Rais grinned triumphantly, lowering the needle to his side. "Good. We shall start with the first mission both of you worked on after joining the SAS."

"No! Shut the hell up! Don't ya say a damned word!" Mick blurted hoarsely, struggling to find enough stamina to fight the chains again.

Rais sighed heavily at Liam's sudden silence, muttering something in his native tongue neither men could translate. Then raised the needle again. Instead of Mick's ribcage, he directed the needle to the back of his neck and dragged it down. The sensation was terrifying, the needle so close to his spine that he could feel it tearing at the first layer of skin like a knife blade, and all he could do was find enough strength to flinch away as his muscle constricted and his skin crawled in disgust.

He looked at Liam and shook his head. Then pushed the needle through skin and muscle between the shoulder blades, waiting until he hit bone before driving the plunger down.

And then there was nothing that mattered anymore. Just blinding pain that left him shaking violently. A scream that bared his throat raw and distorted everything else around him. Moments spent fighting tears that didn't obey in the end anyways. And nothing. Just _nothing_. He tried to picture someplace else like Liam had once told him.

His home in Wales on the beach before it was burned down. The football fields and scrap yards and under bridges he and Liam used to frequent with friends after school. Even the school theater he spent days studying in because it was fascinating to watch his classmates reenact brilliance, and he fancied one of the lead actresses. Abigail Patel and the weekends spent at the base camp, days spent out of classes at Sandhurst with her. Was she even looking for them too? He tried to picture her, to remember what she looked like and how her voice sounded. But in the end he couldn't. Nothing else mattered and no amount of remembrance about once good times took him away from the current hell.

So he was relieved to fall away into nothingness. Because there wasn't pain or weapons tearing into him. Liam wasn't trying to protect him. He wasn't in a bunker beneath the sand of Iraq with no chance of escape. There was just blissful nothingness.

* * *

_Physically_, he was broken. _Mentally, _they were still trying to break him. And he couldn't let them _win_.

Bones heal in months. Skin closes with unappealing scars and scabs in a matter of days or weeks. Even internal injuries, if they weren't life threatening, had their own expectant healing time frame. The human body is resilient in the sense that it tries to heal itself when damaged.

Physically, he would live to fight another day in the dungeon he was kept in. He would heal with time. Rais would continue beating on him until he snapped. Regardless of what he assured to himself of the contrary. Because he was only human. And there was only so much he could take before some portion of his instincts told him to stop before it was too late. But he couldn't let that happen. He couldn't tell them what they wanted to know. They had to think he was still valuable. The moment they realized he wasn't, he was going to be executed like the other prisoners of war he had seen in training.

Snipers in general were always more targeted in torture sessions because the enemy feared them. Because snipers don't play fair in war. They get to hide in the background and take out an entire group without leaving their perch, while other soldiers fought on the grounds and had the most likely chance of getting shot. Therefore, the enemy was less tolerant when one was finally captured. Mick had no doubt his death wouldn't be quick and painless like so many others. They would make him suffer until the last second.

_They already were. _

"_Where ya going with that mask I found? And I feel, and I feel…"_

Mick awoke to the sound of singing. It was faint and sincere, secure in the sense of familiarity, Scottish bravado thickening the words as they echoed around the small confines of his cell. Remembrance and recognition clicked a few moments later. But he couldn't bring himself to acknowledge it aloud.

That was Liam. He was singing, just as he always was when he didn't have his guitar. The song was old, something he couldn't quite remember the origins of but he could remember the next several lyric lines. Liam loved that song, despite the fact that it was from an American band. But then again, a good portion of their favorite music originated in the States.

Mick could remember the last time Liam played it on his own guitar as if it happened the night before. He remembered laying on his mattress in their shared tent back at camp, listening to his brother strum away at his guitar on the bed opposite his, singing with such sincerity that one would think he wrote the song. Mick remembered the way his fingers plucked the strings with the pick and how his accent only really showed during the times he was tired from their mission earlier in the day. He fell asleep to music on most nights, whether it was something from an American alternative rock band or The Beatles. Liam had a strange taste in music, really. But it was comforting because it was real.

It was _real_. Meaning _this_ had to be real too.

Mick thought he had gone blind as his hazy brain became aware of his surroundings. Everything was pitch black again, just the few unfortunately familiar outlines of his cell to tell him where he was exactly. Which was disconcerting and good at the same time, he deemed with a wince as he sucked as much dingy air into his lungs as he could. He almost gagged on the stench of the decomposing body within arms reach, so pungent that it soon became the only smell he could ever think about. Throat constricting, eyes feeling as though they were going to bulge out of the sockets, head pounding with such viciousness that he thought his brain was going to physically explode, every nerve and muscle reacting painfully to his injuries; those were symptoms. He knew they were, and tried to push them away to better understand where Liam was.

Because he recalled the new interrogation quite vividly. He remembered being tied to the hook on the ceiling in another room, remembered Rais offering a compromise that was just a lie wrapped in the thought of survival, remembered the needle shoved between his shoulder blades when he screamed for Liam to shut the hell up just as the Scotsman tried to defend him by agreeing with Rais. And he needed to make sure Liam didn't get himself killed. Realistically, it was a paranoid thought. Liam wasn't _dead_, obviously, because he was singing.

The dead can't sing. Or _hum_. Or _whistle_. Or _scream_.

At least, they're not _supposed_ to.

The singing stopped after the second verse to the song. Liam went silent for a few moments as Mick felt a calloused hand on his shoulder, gripping sternly to shake him. "Mick? Ya finally awake?" Liam questioned worriedly. Mick realized, at that moment, that he and Liam were actually in the same cell. It was _his cell_, but Liam was there. And that didn't make sense. Unless Rais planned this. This could have been a demonstration of sorts, a _show_ as to what was going to happen to all of them if they continued resisting. Which made Mick the unwilling participant.

He was propped on his side on the mattress, chains removed for the time being but too exhausted to use that to his advantage. Injuries were considerably more painful in that position, his breath caught in his throat as a whimper worked its way into the back of his throat. The area where the needle embedded into his spine between his shoulder blades was raw to the air, pulsing like a seeping infected wound. It was seeping, he realized as he shifted his arm minutely and felt rough fabric of cloth and duct tape pull at skin. Why it was treated, he didn't know. And he couldn't care at that moment either. Ribs protested in unison with his stomach, aching for some form of relief. His eyes adjusted to the lack of lighting easily and the outline of his brother kneeling on the floor against the mattress came into view. The hand on his shoulder didn't move, although it tightened, as Mick attempted to nod.

"You're gonna be fine, lad." Liam tried to sound comforting, but Mick could hear the uncertainty in his voice. He felt Liam's hand snake behind his back and flatten the pieces of tape that had peeled off his skin with sweat and restlessness. "They removed it a few hours ago."

Mick felt his heart start to speed up at the disgusting thought that placed in his head. They removed what? Something from him? A piece of him such as a bone that was necessary to mobility? He could feel his toes move and had partial control of his hands and fingers. So what the hell was he talking about?

"The needle, I mean." Liam clarified quickly, seemingly realizing his mistake in words. "Ya flailed when that bastard stabbed ya with it. Half broke off while it was still lodged in. They had to remove it. But whatever was in it is still there. You've been out since the needle broke."

That explained it. But Mick felt nauseous at the information, barely containing the bile in his throat as he smacked his brother's hand off of him shakily and tried to turn onto his back. The keynote word was _tried. _He stopped halfway, feeling something slick and warm wet his upper lip. It originated from his busted nose, he concluded as an unsteady hand wiped at it, feeling the blood against his fingers with a grimace.

He hadn't had a nosebleed since he was a child, when he was twelve and had his head smashed into a car window by the school bully. At the time it required a trip to the hospital because he passed out during class later in the day, and they found that he had a nasty concussion from the impact. However, he knew it wasn't that simple this time.

"It's just a nosebleed…" Liam stated, as if he thought saying it aloud would make it seem less dire. He stopped when Mick shot him a warning glare to shut up, then offered his hand to pull the younger man into a sitting position.

"We need to get out." Mick breathed hoarsely as he was pulled up to lean against the warm brick wall, surprised by the small tone his Welsh accent fell into. He was less surprised when the sensation of falling rolled his empty stomach, and he had no choice but to bolt for the side of the mattress away from his brother. Liam's hand was felt on his shoulder again as he heaved, anchoring him to reality during the pain that blinded him from broken ribs that protested and the muscles in his stomach that constricted. He hadn't eaten or drank anything in days, so there was nothing to rid from his system but stomach acid and blood.

By the time he was finished, he was ready to sleep for the rest of his life. Liam eased him back against the wall, and Mick could feel the older man's hand on the back of his neck, keeping him steady. Through slanted eyes he thought he saw the impossible. The first effects of the drugs injected into him, perhaps. It was impossible to be sure because it was too quick. The room was too dark, and being positive that the corpse opposite the bed moved it's head towards them wasn't possible.

_It wasn't possible_. The corpse was just that, a corpse. It was a person at one time. But the person was dead and all that remained was a lifeless body decaying with the days. Still, he watched it intently, eyes widening to subconsciously find more noticeable features upon it.

"Mick? Ya with me?" Liam slapped his face lightly, startling him purposefully, and moved to sit on the mattress next to him. His own attention fell on the corpse too, frowning heavily as he couldn't understand why Mick was staring at it with such an intense expression. "Mick? Talk to me, lad…"

Mick didn't want to talk. He didn't _want_ to be a prisoner in a cell smaller than any closet he had hidden in when he was a child, locked away in a bunker replicating hell under the Iraq desert, lost to the most sick minded people he had ever seen in any horror movie. _Talking_ would have only confirmed what was in front of him.

So he stayed silent, eyes fixated on the outline of the corpse and posture rigid and shaking.

And then the corpse _moved_. It rose into a sitting position, bones audibly creaking and what little amount of cloth covering decaying flesh shifting with it. There was no point in denying it. He saw it with own eyes. Granted his eyes were not much help in the pitch black and he had been injected with some sort of hallucinogenic drug. But still, he _saw_ it. It was _real_. Or at least as real as anything else he had ever seen. He could smell the new wave of decomposition as it shifted, as the pile of human waste it had been rotting in was disrupted. There were no eyes, just half a face covered in degrading muscle while the other half was strictly bone. The sockets, however, seemed to find him. Its jaw hung slack, only held on by what appeared to be a surgical pin of some sort. Several ribs looked to be missing, along with a hand and a foot on his left side. Remnants of his muscles still hid beneath the cloth though. All of which painted the most terrifying scene Mick had ever witnessed.

Whoever it was, the unlucky soul, was a male around Mick's own age. Who seemed to stare at the sniper hungrily.

Mick's heart skipped a beat as he watched it move. He knew it couldn't have been real. It _had _to be a hallucination. But repeating that it wasn't real didn't stop the physical reaction. It didn't stop the fact that he was frozen where he sat, limbs heavy and petrified, too afraid to breath or blink or do anything to alert Liam as to what was happening. Raw terror pushed adrenaline, and he felt it strengthen the undeniable desire to get the hell out before that _thing _moved again. Then his heart started pounding in his chest, violent and painful in the tight confines, and he just wanted to _run_.

He needed to run away. _Now. _

"Mick? It's just a hallucination. It's not real." Liam tried to calm him.

But Mick wasn't listening. He couldn't pull his attention from the corpse, couldn't look at his brother or even make a sound to describe how horrified he was. It felt as if he was physically stuck, like he couldn't move a muscle even if he wanted to. That lack of control, the inability to escape, was going to kill him.

"It's not real." Liam stated again, rising to his feet from the mattress with a heavy sigh to disguise the pain from his own interrogation sessions. He crouched in front of the corpse, back towards Mick, and pulled a bone from the corpse's leg. The plan was obviously to prove that it was just a hallucination caused by whatever drug had been forced upon him. It didn't have the desired effect though.

Because when Liam turned back to Mick and held the bone in hand pointedly, it wasn't _Liam_ anymore. It was something else. Not his foster brother, but a _creature_ with no skin. It may have looked like his brother in some sense. The tattered clothing and dirty orange-brown hair and harsh blue eyes hardly visible in the darkness. But the skin was missing. Or rather, burned off. There was nothing more than bones and bleeding muscles and the other interior workings of the human body all singed as if he had been burned alive.

_Just like his parents. _

The image was something from a horror movie, but it was real. It _had to be real_, yet it couldn't be. Someone burned to that degree couldn't live. That simply couldn't _happen. _He had seen it when his parents were brought out of the remains of his home when he was child. Knew that there was nothing left to identify them by but dental records because they were charred too severely. Yet, as Liam stepped towards him, bare bloodied kneecaps inches from the mattress, Mick could only draw into himself in repulsion. Injuries be damned. _That wasn't Liam_. _Liam was gone. _His replacement was a monster, surreal and terrifying and dangerous.

Mick darted his eyes to the corpse as it moved again. This time its jaw shifted, the bone creaking and hanging as its head snapped to the side. And Mick was too shocked by Liam to anticipate the earsplitting scream that roared from it. The noise echoed through the bunker, impossibly loud and deafening, ringing in his ears like knives piercing into his brain. It wasn't the typical horror-movie-scream, but something worse. Louder and more reminiscent to the scream he had heard when he was child just before his home exploded in front of him, like his mother was screaming the last breath she ever took.

_Over and over again. _

He pushed his palms over his ears in hopes to stop it, to make it less painful, fingernails digging into his skin until he could hear the rush of his own blood beneath the scream itself. But that didn't help because the scream, like the hallucination, originated from his own tormented imagination. He just wanted it to _stop. _

The scream and the bloodied skinless sight of his loved ones accompanied the drugs he was given at least twice a day until the day they finally escaped, it never stopped. The scream kept him awake for days at a time, from the corpse they never removed from his cell or seemingly every lost soul that had perished in that hell. Images of his family, the people he cared for more than anything else in the world, imprinted themselves on his memory like a laser carving into granite. And it _never _stopped.

Even years later, after he was safe in another country, it wouldn't leave his nightmares. He would have done anything just to forget. _Just to make it stop. _

* * *

Note- People! I'm back! Hello!  
I told myself that I wouldn't write descriptive torture scenes because it's probably not good for my psyche. But the plot bunnies wouldn't leave this alone. Damn them. They're persistent… Anyways, this is just a single one-shot for now. It plays into the main story arc, and has relevance into One-Eighty By Summer as that progresses. I kind of needed to show that Rais had other motives for his capture of Mick's team. Why did he want information on closed missions? You'll see. Also, the corpse that Mick hallucinated to move and scream plays into the main story line too. I will say that later in One-Eighty By Summer, the team is given some very frightening information that tells them who that corpse was and a little more detail as to what happened to the team.  
Okay, no more spoilers for now. You know what to do, right? Leave a review if you can. And if you want to see something particular in a one-shot, like a prompt, feel free to let me know. I'll try to satisfy to the best of my ability. A huge thanks to everyone who has read, reviewed, and subscribed to my stuff so far! You guys are awesome!


	10. Free Part 1

Intermission

Free

Summary- Starting a new life after prison had been the hardest thing Prophet had ever done. But he made it work with help from Cooper. He had a new life with the FBI and a shot at redemption he didn't think was even possible. Therefore he owed Cooper everything in return. Even if it was never going to be enough.

Rated teen for themes as always. Nothing particularly explicit though. There are no pairings. I personally don't ship Mick with anyone other than Gina. But it could open to interpretation if anyone wants to think differently. There are spoilers for quite a few of my previous works. This falls into the main story line but takes place when Prophet and Mick were first recruited by Cooper. You might want to read those if you haven't yet. It's not necessarily, but it'll make a bit more sense if do. No one beta reads my work, although I won't refuse, so any grammar and spelling mistakes are my own fault. Please don't verbally kill me for a typo.

Sadly I do not own anything involving Criminal Minds Suspect Behavior. I wish I did. Just like I wish Matt Ryan(the actor) had a Twitter account I could follow. But unfortunately neither of which are probably ever going to come true. Anyways… The only things I do own are my creations and imagination.

Enough of my rambling! To the story!

* * *

'_We come to beginnings only at the end.' - William Throsby Bridges._

Free Part 1

Six years, three months, four days.

It took six years, three months, and four days for Jonathon _Prophet_ Simms lose everything. His wife, his son, his parents and siblings, his house, his job, his reputation as an FBI agent, the majority of his personal belongings such as his car, his friends. Everything pertaining to his life in Los Angeles had been taken when his wife, Debra, filed for divorce after his conviction. His six year old son, Daniel, was dead. The bastard responsible had been beaten to death by his own hands and then shot repeatedly to ensure that he was finally gone. His parents and siblings in North Carolina were ashamed to be related to him. What reputation he did have before he was sentenced to a federal prison in California had to be destroyed while he was in the presence of deadly murderers and rapists and thieves for the sake of his own survival, and he was never going to get that back. Everything was just _gone._

If it took almost seven years to destroy his life, it was going to take twice as long to put it back together.

Prophet had never been one for the idea of redemption. In his younger years, before he had an epiphany in his prison cell one night after the divorce was finalized and his wife refused to visit him anymore, his temper and ruthless diligence on his cases had given him a lengthy reputation. It had also pissed off a lot of people. At the time he didn't think he had anything to be regretful of. The man who murdered his son was dead and he didn't feel any kind of regret about it. It was justified in his mind. Regardless of what the jury and judge and prosecutors decided.

But as he laid on the hard mattress of his cot in a six by eight feet cell surrounded by brick between other murderers he hadn't been keen to speak with more than what was necessary, the thin standard issue blanket and pillow not touching the piercing cold through his orange prison attire and the brisk darkness of night unable to lull him to sleep, he came to the realization that he had been wrong.

Killing the bastard didn't bring Daniel back. It didn't save his marriage or his reputation or his friendship with his coworkers. If anything, it ruined everything. He lost. It was over, end of story, and he had nothing left in life because of it. He had hit rock bottom, sort to speak, which meant he had absolutely no reasoning any longer. There was no reason to continue with life because it was just himself in a jail full of criminals, and he was no better than any one of them.

If Sam Cooper hadn't taken notice to him, if his life hadn't been saved by a man he only just met, he would have just ended it to be with his son again. Just to have _something _meaningful to hold onto again.

So when he was offered a chance at redemption by the mysterious Sam Cooper, he couldn't refuse. Because no one else had cared enough to visit him after Debra left. No one else vouched for him at his appeal hearings or even bothered to look him in the eye. No one would have cried at his funeral or even blinked if he were to disappear one day. Well, no one except the criminals he became acquainted with. But they weren't going to speak on his behalf to the parole board, probably because he was still an asset to them if he stayed and continued to accurately profile whoever they wanted for the exchange of lenience from the more dangerous prisoners.

That was how he got the name _Prophet_. He sold his soul for safety to the highest bidder. Just to ensure that he didn't get stabbed in the back by a handmade shank or poisoned during the disgusting meals they were fed. He wasn't proud of it, but it kept him alive for the duration of his prison sentence. Besides, if they didn't think he was valuable and they knew he was an FBI agent at one point, there was bound to be a few bounties on his head.

Sam Cooper had been a legend in the FBI for quite a long time. Prophet could only vaguely recall the accusations and rumors though. He knew the man had disappeared some years before his release from prison. Supposedly he worked overseas with some soldiers and conducted some form of psychological testing and warfare against the enemy Taliban. But that was never proven or discussed. Prophet could respect a man that valued privacy. Prison had taught him that privacy wasn't a given necessity, but a requirement one had to establish themselves.

Cooper, much to Prophet's surprise, did manage to finally sway the decision on his parole hearing. He wasn't sure why someone would do that for him though. Or how Cooper accomplished such an impressive fleet to begin with. They had only met a handful of times and none of their conversations involved getting him out of prison. The prospect of redemption was discussed, as well as Prophet's thoughts as to what he was going to do with his life if and when he was finally granted parole. And truthfully, Prophet hadn't given the thought of his life after his freedom much time to occupy his attention.

However, when the paperwork was signed and he was escorted out of the jail in his own worn dark jeans that had been a bit more loose than he remembered and dirty hiking boots he had forgotten the insoles were ruined and long sleeved red and gray jacket that seemed to fair the years of storage well enough, the realization of the situation hit him like a wake-up-slap. He had physically changed over the years. Time and rationed meals had stripped him of the bulkiness his wife used to tease him for, leaving him tall and slender with a short layer of light brown and gray scruff on his face that he hadn't shaved in several days.

Somehow the early summer air smelled different, the California sunshine bright and hot with a faint breeze through his baseball cap, and for the first time in over six years he felt as though he could breath again.

He was free. No more prison. No more profiling rivaling prisoners to the highest bidder to keep himself alive day after day. Just _freedom_.

Once the metal fence was opened with a loud creek and a buzz of the alarm from the surrounding guards, he finally released the toothy grin tugging at his lips. He expected to be alone, to use the two hundred dollars in his wallet to find a taxi to drive him to a cheap dinner for some decent food, then to find a payphone somewhere and beg one of his siblings or parents to give him shelter until he could find a job. Of course, the conversation he had with his older sister the day before didn't instill him with confidence that it was going to be that simple.

Instead of an empty parking lot, various abandoned cars parked in wait on the reflecting asphalt and the distant echoing ring of the nearby highway, there was someone waiting for him. For the first time in years, someone cared enough to wait for him.

Cooper gave a quick nod and smiled tightly, his dark features relaxed in the distance. The summer heat didn't seem to phase his choice of baggy jeans and black leather jacket hung open to hint to the gray tee shirt. He stood near the driver side of what appeared to be a standard FBI issued black SUV, arms crossed and posture loose. Prophet assumed he used his leverage in the FBI to get the temporary vehicle. If he could find a way to get him released four years before his sentence was technically over, and without the constant nag of a parole officer watching his every move, he probably could have personally made the world turn.

Which was a ridiculous thought, Prophet decided as he unzipped his jacket and stuffed his hands in his pockets. He smirked in amusement at it, then took one final step towards freedom. Looking back at the gate as it slid closed behind him, he breathed a sigh of relief and hesitated for a moment longer. It felt surreal to leave, to finally be able to live again. Some irrational part of him worried it was just a dream. That he would wake to find himself still in his six by eight feet prison cell and nothing had ever changed for the better.

But as he closed the distanced between himself and Cooper and shook the other man's outstretched hand, he pushed the thought away because it was real. There was no way to dispute it. Maybe redemption hadn't been his idea from the start. After spending almost six and a half years in a prison cell with nothing to show but a few wayward battle scars and a box of trinkets his wife left for him, it sure as hell seemed like the only thing left.

* * *

"Why are you helping me?" Prophet asked the one question that had been nagging at him for the past four days.

He and Cooper were enjoying a lunch at the local country dinner when he decided to break the silence between them. The dinner wasn't very busy considering it was a weekday, but Cooper still managed to get a table away from the few others in the building. Country music was muffled in the background, the smell of frying oil and grease pungent over the drift of cigarette smoke from a few customers on the opposite side of the room. Most of the shades had been drawn up to allow natural sunlight to pour through. Unfortunately the one shade beside their table had been closed shut by Cooper for reasons he wouldn't specify. Prophet, while enjoying a thick cheeseburger and onion rings, assumed he was paranoid about a wayward sniper or wasn't comfortable with the Los Angeles sunlight. Both of which sounded absurd.

Prophet didn't know why the question seemed relevant at that moment. During the past three months of negotiations with the parole board and the appeal hearing and discussions with Cooper, he never once questioned _why_. He was handed a chance at a new life, something he never thought was possible, and some portion of him didn't want to tempt fate. But after the first several days of freedom, of realizing that he had a second chance thanks to a man he hardly knew, the question became more pressing.

People always have ulterior motives. There's never a single kind act that doesn't involve the prospect of return. In reality, people in general are greedy and selfish. It's natural to expect something in return. But that understanding doesn't make it feel less degrading.

Over the past several years Prophet's view of people had changed. He always remembered the basic psychology assessments he was taught at the FBI academy more than a decade ago. His general outlook on the world and its inhabitants had been altered with age and troubling experiences though. In prison, whenever someone asked for a cigarette they usually had one of two motives. To either drag a few puffs and then burn someone with the remainder as a message of some kind, or use it as a leverage against someone later. And if one were to refuse, then a target was painted on their back to enforce control. Prophet didn't smoke, at least not since he found out that Debra was pregnant with Daniel more than a decade ago, but the example still held true in the scope of things.

There was no such thing as a kind deed without the expectation of something in return.

However, Prophet honestly didn't _think_ Cooper was going to ask for something in return. He wasn't naïve enough to belief that Cooper wouldn't or couldn't. The man was a well recognized profiler and his record for manipulating unsubs and cases into the way he wanted was something to be admired. At the time he just didn't anticipate that Cooper had the audacity to do something like that. Especially because he had almost nothing to give in return.

Cooper had given him more than he had ever thought was possible. And he owed the man a dept that could never be repaid for simply giving him a second chance with life. But he wasn't sure what he could ever do to thank him enough for everything.

He had an apartment paid by Cooper in Los Angeles. It wasn't much, certainly a far cry from the two story home he and Debra used to live in near the beach with their son, but it was a hell of a lot better than the six by eight feet prison cell he had slept in for the past six and a half years. His neighbors weren't convicted murderers or rapists or thieves. Although, the teenager living in the next apartment on the right had a horrible tendency to blare rap music between two and six in the morning, which _should_ have been considered a crime. Thankfully his wife left him his old headphones and CD player complete with a dozen discs from his collection. The building itself was located two blocks from a small dinner that didn't serve the best food he'd ever had, but it was decent. Because it was within walking distance, he only had to conserve the five hundred dollars Cooper gave him for food and clothing necessities from the local thrift store down the street.

Searching for a job had been problematic. His records pertaining to his years in prison were sealed by a judge. As were his previous job accomplishments from his stint in the FBI. Unfortunately his trial had been watched closely by several news networks. Which meant that it was public information. The only job he could find was a backwater mechanic that offered to cut him into the business as a low level employee that cleaned oil and car fluids from their tools. But only if he kept his mouth shut about whatever he may have seen in the future. Prophet had no desire to risk his new life with a shady job like that.

Whenever Cooper invited him for a meal at the local dinner, he wasn't allowed to pay the bill. Prophet wouldn't have complained about that seeing as he was trying to conserve money, but it felt strange and out of place most of the time. Like Cooper was helping him put his life back together for a much larger purpose. As if he were a key piece on a chess board and Cooper had set up a chain of events based on what he desired as the outcome.

Of course, no one was capable of planning that far ahead. It wasn't possible. At least, it wasn't something Prophet had ever seen before in his lifetime.

"Is there a reason why I shouldn't?" Cooper responded to his question after swallowing his mouthful of coffee. His fork hovered over the salad on his plate, harsh dark eyes barring into him for an answer.

It was intimidating, although Prophet was fairly certain that hadn't been the intention, and only increased the tension felt between them. Prophet forced a shrug, dropping his gaze to the plate with a shake of his head. "No, it's just strange that someone I hardly know actually gives a damn." He paused for few moments, crumbling a napkin between his fingers as he looked up to catch the older man's gaze. "I appreciate everything you've done. Honestly, I never expected someone would care enough to get me out of prison. Especially in the way that you've done. But I just feel like there's a reason behind it. That you didn't do this because you heard about what happened to my son and decided that it wasn't fair."

Cooper set his fork on the edge of his plate, the metal clattering against glass slightly as he offered a short smile in reassurance. He leaned back in the old wooden chair, the frame creaking in protest at the motion, and folded his hands in his lap. His stare was pressing and calculating, as if he was gauging what could be said and what was irrelevant. When he finally spoke it was in a tone much lower than before and more sincere than Prophet had ever heard from him. "It wasn't fair. You were a great agent, according to your records."

"So you somehow managed to get me out of prison because you didn't think my conviction wasn't justified?" Prophet responded with furrowed confused expression. "How was that even possible?"

"Jack Fickler is the director of the FBI now. We've been friends since we worked together in the 1990s on the first Red Cell team. He was appointed as the new director a year after your sentence. Before that, he was the main head of the Red Cell units. You've heard about Red Cells, right?"

From what Prophet remembered, FBI Red Cell units were the best position in the FBI. They were the rapid response teams, assigned to the most dangerous and important cases and expected to solve them in record time. Politically, they were invaluable because they were directly assigned by the FBI director himself. Meaning a large majority of their cases were politically motivated. Such as finding a senator's missing child or wife, or catching a serial killer in the midst of an election that one politician took credit for. Agents worked in the shadows of society, never showing themselves on camera if possible and always cautious about who they introduced themselves to. Cases were high profile, high risk, and incredibly difficult. Normally they didn't ask questions as to why they were given cases because it wasn't necessary to the job. They simply followed their own rules to get the job done and never made mistakes. And if there was a mistake made, even in the slightest, the team was disbanded and reassigned and another took its place.

In short, they were the best agents the FBI had to offer. And Prophet had no desire to work for them. Not after the FBI ruined his life.

Technically, it wasn't the FBI itself that ruined his life. It was the FBI director at the time who decided to use him as an example. The director, Marcus Trenton, was a cold-hearted bastard with little sense of leniency towards criminal acts. It didn't matter to him that Terry McCoy had kidnapped, tortured, and butchered his six-year-old son. He didn't care that Prophet had spent six months searching for his son while he watched his relationship with his wife destroy itself before he found Daniel's decomposing body in a trash bag washed up on the beach. Trenton didn't _care_ that McCoy was a serial killer who had done the same inexplicable act to more than a dozen children over the course of fifteen years.

The fact was that McCoy, despite being a serial killer and the open investigation against him that Prophet had ruined when he murdered the bastard, was a well known figure in the state of California government. He was careful and meticulous, so none of his previous murders strayed back to him as far as undeniable evidence. All Prophet had against the man was a phone call he remembered in vivid detail and the corpse of his son. Neither of which convinced a jury that McCoy deserved to be executed.

And Trenton didn't give a damn to stop it.

Mixed emotions contorted his features as his mind reeled with the information Cooper gave him. Trenton was a lousy director in his opinion. So he was thrilled to hear that someone else, someone who was close friends with someone like Cooper, took over as a new leader. The FBI needed it. That also explained how Cooper was able to get him out of prison. If Fickler was such a good friend, then it certainly gave him leeway to quite a few acts most other directors wouldn't have allowed.

But that meant he wasn't a free man. Not really. Cooper worked some kind of deal to get him out of prison, and there was bound to be an expectation on his part from the director because of it. Naturally, the moment that realization took hold, he began inexcusably angry.

"That's the catch, isn't it? You made a deal with the director of the FBI to get me out, and didn't bother to tell me until days later? What does he expect me to do if I refuse to help the FBI with anything? Are you just going to ship me back off to prison? You do realize that I pissed off a lot of people by leaving. They'll think I sold myself out to the FBI and kill me in my sleep…" Prophet ranted for a few long moments, voice broken into a hissed whisper as he leaned forward and gripped the edge of the wooden table to control his temper.

Cooper held up his hands in mock surrender and shook his head adamantly. The disbelieving scowl was genuine, as if he was appalled by the suggestion. "Of course not. I did use Fickler to get you out. But the only reason he agreed was because I made him read the transcripts from the trial. He put in a favor to several friends in the government afterwards to get the case reviewed again. It was pushed through, which was why it only took a few months. You were released only because I agreed to keep an eye on you. They're still reviewing some of the finer details in DC now, and if all goes according to plan than you should be reimbursed by the beginning of January next year."

His lawyer never told him that. Nor did the parole and appeal boards he was placed in front of. It was shocking to hear that Cooper went to such lengths to have someone else review his files and reconsider his sentence, especially after so many years of trying to get someone to listen to him. But the biggest question was still the most drastic.

"Why?" He asked with a huffed sigh in exaggeration. "Why did you even bother to present it to the director?"

The older man glanced behind him cautiously, as if he was reassuring himself that the waitress was busy with another table and the other patrons were too focused on their own food and conversation to care about anything else. Then he leaned against the table, elbows and forearms against the surface and a stern expression on his dark features. "I've only been back in the FBI for six months. In that time, I've overseen a few operations in Red Cell units that contradicted everything I helped create. So Fickler has agreed to let me start a new Red Cell team run by myself personally. I'm allowed first pick but it has to be reviewed by him before the decision is finalized."

"And you want me on the team." Prophet finished as his eyes widened in surprise.

It wasn't something he had ever considered before. Hell, he never anticipated that it was possible with his previous records. Joining a Red Cell was a commitment like no other. It meant dedication to a team as close as family, to people who were forced to work together seamlessly, and Prophet wasn't sure he could accomplish that.

"I do, actually. Out of the dozen others I've researched, your records stand out. In the nine and a half years you were assigned to the Behavioral Analysis unit, you closed more cases than any other in the department. Your methods were unorthodox but always got the unsub in the end. And unlike your previous bosses, I don't fault you for thinking outside the box. That's a quality I've been looking for." Cooper replied, pausing for a brief second to sip his coffee and time his words vigilantly. "I know this sounds like I just got you out of prison to put you back to work with the very agency that left you for the wolves. And I know you must be thinking that I'm either desperate or insane. But I think both parties could benefit from this."

By _both parties _he obviously meant himself, Prophet decided bitterly as he ground his teeth. Working for the very people who turned their backs on him wasn't an option. It never was, even years after his sentence was dictated and his freedom was arranged. He would have rather spent the rest of his life working under-the-table jobs with known criminals and living in a scarce apartment with annoying neighbors than returned to the same people who disgraced him.

"So you're offering me a job?" He questioned harshly, tone low and unforgiving despite his best efforts to maintain civil.

Cooper narrowed his eyes on the other man as he shook his head, which only heightened Prophet's confusion and curiosity with the passing seconds. "Not necessarily a _job._ More like a better life than this. You can stay here in Los Angeles and work for people who are bound to get you put back in prison as an unknowing accomplice, living in an apartment full of neighbors who don't give a damn about any form of privacy or respect. Or you can come back to DC with me and take up a position in a better apartment building and fellow coworkers that would care if something were to happen to you." A moment of silence filled between them, allowing the words to click into something rational and nearly undeniable. When Cooper carried on, it was back in the same sincerity he had spoken in just a few short minutes before.

"I know things have been difficult with your parents and family in North Carolina. I know they marked you off as the kind of red-headed-step-child. But this could make them see reason again. This could be the difference between being alone for the rest of your life and having a chance at redemption with everyone who ever thought poorly of you. Your family included. Maybe one day it could even convince Debra that things really do change with time and she made a mistake when she filed for divorce."

_Debra_.

The woman he loved with all his heart, the woman that gave him a wonderful son and a meaning behind life. Even after she filed the divorce paperwork and physically took everything, after she ripped his heart out of his chest by blaming him for their son's death, he _still_ loved her. It wasn't rational because she had made it painfully clear that the feeling wasn't mutual. Nor was it understandable because he _should _have resented her with as much vigor as he did the FBI and the bastard who had actually murdered his son. But in some ways he still considered her his wife. He still carried his wedding ring on a chain around his neck because he couldn't let her go too. She may have taken his personal belongings, but she couldn't destroy the fact that he still adored her with every ounce of his soul.

Meaning the hope that maybe one day he could have convinced her to marry him again and start over left him speechless.

He stared at Cooper, knowing he had just fallen into a psychological trap set to ensure Cooper's desired outcome, and just blinked. There was no other motion he could muster at that moment. So he just _blinked_, feeling his mouth go dry in a matter of seconds and the tension easing from his posture as intelligible understanding sank into the recesses of his thoughts.

It made sense to take the offer. But he wasn't entirely convinced he had a choice.

"What happens if I refuse?" He mumbled humbly, sinking back into the wooden chair as he swallowed anxiously.

Cooper raised an eyebrow, as if he thought the answer was transparent. "Nothing." He replied honestly. "I told you, I wanted you to get out of prison because you deserve a second chance. If you don't want to accept the offer back in DC, then I won't punish you for it. You won't be sent back to prison, and I won't stop paying the rent on your apartment until you find a decent job to support yourself so you won't be homeless. But it's a matter of what you want to do with the rest of your life. If you want to stay in Los Angeles, than I won't hold that against you. Just know that you would be passing the biggest offer of your life."

The biggest deal he had ever taken. A promise of a better life with people who would have missed him if he were gone. Promises of a decent career and home, without the constant worry of critical survival day after day, even the notion of regaining his reputation among his wife and family. It was so real, so satisfying and tempting, that he was finding the act of refusal impossible.

"How much time do I have to consider it?" He asked, scrubbing his eyes tiredly with the heels of his hands. Insomnia had been an unwanted acquaintance for some time, but it had subsided into something more manageable after the first year in prison. However, it had resurfaced after his release from prison days ago. So it wasn't necessarily the stress of the situation that caused him to feel mentally exhausted. Although it was certainly a significant contributor.

Cooper shrugged, reaching for his coffee. "Fickler wants me back in DC by tomorrow afternoon for a meeting with a few other Red Cell team leaders. You have my cell phone number, so I suppose you could take as long as you wanted…"

"Give me until tomorrow morning to think it over." Prophet interrupted with a heavy sigh. That was a contradiction, he realized as the words left his mouth. But as Cooper nodded in agreement, he realized that perhaps it wasn't such a bad thing.

Tomorrow morning was hours away. He had plenty of time to find the flaws or deceptions in Cooper's proposition. If there was any.

* * *

Material possessions were unnecessary.

The concept became valid when Debra took the majority of possessions Prophet owned during the divorce. When the only things he was left with in his prison cell were never safe because someone _always_ tried to steal them. After the files dictating what Debra would get during the divorce, their home and their cars and everything else between, came through his lawyer and left him feeling as though someone had physically ripped a hole in his chest.

Nothing else mattered at that point. What was left were clung to despite what he told himself on a daily basis because he couldn't let go. Because he was still hoping that Debra would have changed her mind at the last second and things would start to be _okay_ again.

An old tattered baseball cap from the days Prophet used to coach his son's little league baseball team. An empty cigarette lighter that once served as a substitute for his nerves when he abandoned cigarettes. Pictures of the days he and Debra spent with their son on the baseball field near the elementary school and during his birthday parties with friends and relatives, even taken from the times on the beach where he taught Daniel how to swim and his last visit to his grandparent's home in North Carolina when he was five years old. Several other small trinkets he gave his son over the years of traveling between states in pursuit of serial killers. Most of which stashed in a small plastic box his son customized with paint and gave him for father's day a week before he was abducted. And what wasn't in the plastic box, was taped shut in a cardboard ornament box Debra left behind because it reminded her too much of their last Christmas together.

Those were all he had. They meant nothing to others and everything to him. For that reason, he simply couldn't stop himself from shuffling through the contents of the box night after night. They were reminders of once good times. Of what life used to be before McCoy and Trenton ruined everything. The one thing that kept him willing during the depressed days and motivated during the rest. He had a beautiful wife and a wonderful son and a home near the beach and a good job that helped to pay for a comfortable life. Those few items, seemingly insignificant to anyone else, were the only ties to what used to be.

And Prophet longed for that feeling of security again. Just one _last _time.

His apartment was small, but larger than the prison cell he had lived in for more than six years. There were only three discernible rooms. A bedroom just large enough for a lumpy twin size bed that caused his back to ache and a worn dresser with only two functioning drawers because the others had gotten jammed when the slides broke, and a closet that was missing the mirror once attached to the inside. The living area with a couch that reeked of cigarette smoke and a dead mouse Prophet found earlier that night beneath a broken spring but no television to speak of. And a kitchen with a stove top that took too long to cool down once it was used and a 1990s refrigerator that made a horrible grinding noise every night like clock work. The floors and ceiling creaked with little pressure from anyone, walls thin enough for Prophet to hear the bustling cars on the street outside and the loud voices of his neighbors.

Essentially, the apartment was just another form of hell. It was a drastic improvement from the prison cell he had become accustomed to. But it was still impossible to live a genuinely decent existence in such a place.

Laying on the lumpy mattress, the pillows beneath his head flat so they needed to be folded just to give some form of support and the blankets rough against the skin of his legs and arms, despite the night attire of old shorts and a tee shirt he bought from the local thrift store, he exhaled loudly and dropped his hands to the mattress against his sides. The pictures he had been skimming through fell from his fingers, sliding towards the edge but not quite falling over. His neighbor hadn't returned from wherever he worked to blare rap music yet, so it was eerily silent save for the outside traffic noises.

There was too much on his mind. It wouldn't let him sleep, so he had no other option than to flip through photos again and try to preoccupy himself until exhaustion forced him into sleep.

Cooper's words still rang through his conscious, clear and sensual as time passed. He was offering a second chance at a better life. An opportunity to leave Los Angeles and start over in DC. Prophet would have had a better home, people that cared, a rewarding job that, if done correctly, could have given him a new reputation. Life would have improved a thousand times better than what it already had. And no matter how many times Prophet considered every variable, played every scenario in his head he could think of, he couldn't find the catch in any of it.

True, Cooper had an ulterior motive for freeing him from prison. But after pondering it once he returned back to his apartment later that night, he realized that the results weren't entirely unpleasant. He would have had to work with the FBI again. That didn't sound appealing. However, it was under new management. Fickler sounded like he was a good friend of Cooper. And compared to Trenton, he seemed to be more lenient than Prophet thought was safe for a man in his position of power. There was a damned good reason for allowing Cooper to start a new Red Cell team though. One that was hand picked by one of the best Red Cell agents in the FBI since it began. While Prophet didn't appreciate being psychologically manipulated in that manner, he had to admit that it was impressive.

So maybe it was possible to try.

Under new management with a new team handpicked by Cooper himself, it was bound to be a hell of a lot better than any other job he could have gotten.

After all, it had the possibility to bring Debra back into his life one day and restore a suitable relationship with his family. Washington DC was much closer to North Carolina than California. So perhaps he could have seen his parents and siblings again. He knew only his younger brother stilled lived in Wilmington with his parents. His other siblings had strayed between New York and Georgia over the past several years and had their own families to worry about. It would have been nice to see them again though. This time without his suit and in handcuffs in a court room.

It wasn't much of a choice to begin with, he decided as he pulled himself out of bed and started collecting the photos. Living like this, with nothing but the few items he could carry in a single suitcase and no friends or family to speak of, wasn't going to last him forever. He had always been a social person, and the years of confinement and rejection had hardened his soul into something he almost couldn't recognize anymore. Depression was a constant when he was in prison. Over time, he learned how to manage it. But there were several days, as he vaguely remembered, where he just didn't have the willpower to get of bed in the mornings. When he was put in front of psychiatrists and asked why, and the only answer he could give them was a shrug and a flip of his middle finger because their questions were absurd and insulting. The depression stemmed from the fact that he had lost his meaning in life. Debra and Daniel and his family were gone and he had nothing left anymore. Therefore it was ridiculous to think that he wouldn't have gotten depressed by everything that threatened to swallow him alive.

He had no desire to return to that mindset. Those days where the pills they gave him didn't quite work all the time and he just couldn't bring himself to get out of bed, despite how much the warden threatened to lock him in the psychiatric ward because he refused to move when the guards ordered him to, were the worst he had ever spent in prison. Some days he thought it would have been the best thing in the world if he were to die in his sleep. But once he was offered freedom and a new life, those thoughts seemed to vanish.

And he wasn't going to allow such an enticing opportunity slip through his fingers. Especially when the memories of depression flooded back.

Once Prophet secured the photos in the box at the foot of the bed, he cracked the kinks from his back and rose to snag his jacket from the closet door hook opposite him. He searched the pockets blindly, finding the disposable black cell phone and piece of scrap paper he had jotted Cooper's cell phone number on days before. Another sigh fell from his lips as he unscrambled the paper and started dialing.

Originally he wasn't going to accept the deal. But after realizing his other alternatives could have easily been the death of him, what other choice did he have?


	11. Free Part 2

Intermission

Free

Summary- Starting a new life after prison had been the hardest thing Prophet had ever done. But he made it work with help from Cooper. He had a new life with the FBI and a shot at redemption he didn't think was even possible. Therefore he owed Cooper everything in return. Even if it was never going to be enough.

Rated teen for themes as always. Nothing particularly explicit though. There are no pairings. I personally don't ship Mick with anyone other than Gina. But it could open to interpretation if anyone wants to think differently. There are spoilers for quite a few of my previous works. This falls into the main story line but takes place when Prophet and Mick were first recruited by Cooper. You might want to read those if you haven't yet. It's not necessarily, but it'll make a bit more sense if do. No one beta reads my work, although I won't refuse, so any grammar and spelling mistakes are my own fault. Please don't verbally kill me for a typo.

Sadly I do not own anything involving Criminal Minds Suspect Behavior. I wish I did. Just like I wish Matt Ryan(the actor) had a Twitter account I could follow. But unfortunately neither of which are probably ever going to come true. Anyways… The only things I do own are my creations and imagination.

Enough of my rambling! To the story!

* * *

Free Part 2

Prophet had always been a social person. In his younger years, his family told him that he was _abnormally happy_. That his interest in people was a bit _strange_ because they couldn't find a reason for it. While they hadn't been entirely supportive of him joining the government to study and apprehend serial killers, he learned to love his job because it meant dealing with new people. And he met Debra during a case, which had been the most defining moment of his life. He liked people, although he wasn't keen on being the center of attention, and that attitude was what made him quite likable among his peers at one time. That was one of the qualities Debra claimed to adore about him.

But over the years he learned that his fascination with the human mind was not what he originally anticipated. He had seen people mutilated by delusional serial killers, children and women brutally beaten for someone else's own sick minded entertainment, serial killers that used anything and everything as a weapon of some kind. In prison he witnessed men get stabbed with a shank or beaten within an inch of their lives because they looked at the wrong person, even some had committed suicide by hanging themselves or slitting their wrists or purposefully swallowing bleach and alcohol from the infirmary and laundry room.

It changed his view on the world, having seen so many disturbing things. The idea that people were fascinating fell away during his years in prison, replaced by the cold fact that people were their own worst enemy at times. That wasn't so much fascinating as it was logical realism.

That realization made friendships strenuous at best. His teammates, his _friends_, had left him to the wolves after he pleaded guilty to murdering McCoy. Not a single one visited him after the first six months of his ten years sentence. Hell, they probably didn't even know he had gotten out early thanks to Cooper. His best friend, the man who drove Debra and Prophet to admit that they loved each other and attended their wedding as the groom's best man, hadn't even bothered to talk to him in six years. They were partners on the team. While Prophet ran the unit, he considered Brandon Wallace another member of the family. And he hadn't been there at all since the day he was sentenced.

So understandably, Prophet was jaded when the subject came to friends.

He followed Cooper's lead once they were in DC because he didn't know who else he could call.

Cooper helped him rent an apartment a few blocks from his own loft, which was drastically better than the one he had settled in Los Angeles. His neighbors didn't blare annoying music at ungodly hours of night. The furniture didn't reek of dead rats and didn't leave kinks in his neck and back. All of the appliances worked accordingly, meaning the stove didn't threaten to burn the place to the ground and the refrigerator didn't shriek. It was comfortable, quiet, and the exact opposite of what he had lived in for the past six years.

Between meetings with the director of the FBI, he refilled for his drivers license and was rewarded a week after his test with a freshly printed license. Afterwards Cooper contacted an old friend who sold used cars. Some sort of deal was arranged, though Prophet didn't know the details of such exactly, and his used car was delivered with legal documentation to the apartment building. The payments were low because it already had high mileage and was expected to only last another year or so. But Prophet knew he could find the parts at the local scrap yard to transform it back to its original glory. It was a side project between the days he attended classes at the FBI academy to reapply for his new Red Cell position.

It felt strange to return to the academy after so many years. There were bright new faces, young and eager to prove themselves for the first time, and Prophet couldn't relate with any of them. The feeling seemed to be mutual, seeing as he caught their stares and whispered conversations between friends with pointed glares in his direction. A majority of the instructors either knew about his trial and sentence because it was tagged in his files, or they figured out that he had gotten bailed out by the director and Cooper. Either way, they obviously weren't pleased with his presence. The physical training instructor appeared to make it his goal to embarrass and belittle Prophet as much as he could. Prophet, not one to be stepped on, promptly proved himself fit when he completed the one and a half mile run before the rest of his classmates and in record time.

After five months, he graduated in the top one percent of his class with high marks from all the instructors. Despite how much they appeared to dislike him. Fickler officially signed the paperwork for his readmission to the FBI the day of his graduation. Somehow he and Cooper devised a small celebration at a bar opposite Cooper's loft, including people he didn't know and alcohol he drank too much of and good food he hadn't had in far too long. Fickler himself didn't attend, but Cooper did say that he sent his best regards and congratulations for his accomplishments. Which, if Prophet were honest with himself, meant a hell of a lot.

In April of 2009, ten months after his release from a state prison in California, Cooper decided to add another teammate to their Red Cell. They had been working cold cases since the day after Prophet's graduation, and had managed to solve quite a few that other Red Cell teams hadn't even gotten close to. Oddly enough, the cases had been much simpler than what he expected. It surprised him to see that the other Red Cell teams hadn't finished them in the same manner. Their methods weren't _bad_ or _inadequate_, they were just looking in the wrong directions.

It was the first of April when Cooper notified him of his new teammate's arrival. Upon first assumptions, he thought the older man was playing some kind of April Fool's joke on him. They worked well together, playing ideas off one another in a truly methodical show of intelligence and creativity. Cooper, as hard as Prophet fought it, grew to be the only real friend Prophet had. So why did they need another teammate? It was dictated by Fickler that all Red Cell teams had to consist of five members, that much he knew. But surely there was another reason.

He arrived at Cooper's loft at nine o'clock that night per Cooper's request. From the exterior, it appeared to be an old abandoned brick warehouse of some kind. There were two sets of windows, first and second story, and several of them were blocked by what he assumed were sheets. Curtains held back the majority of dimmed light, but the soft hue peeked out in time with a single human shadow passing through. Street lamps illuminated a metal grate serving as a door to the interior, the glint of motorcycle reflectors through the holes grabbing his attention. He knew Cooper only rented a standard four wheel car when necessary. Otherwise he preferred his motorcycle. Prophet didn't fault him on such a thing because he had a motorcycle when he was in his early twenties. So he knew how thrilling they were.

The first of April showers started an hour before, meaning Prophet's red flannel jacket was damp on the shoulders where his black umbrella was pulled away from him with the winds. It was wet and chilly, the passing cars slinging water in their wake and the street lamps visibly shining the rain. Prophet tugged his jacket zipper closer to his chin, sniffling against the air before he rapped his knuckles against the cold grate paneling.

There was a rustling noise somewhere beyond the dark alcove, then a blinding sudden flicker of a light bulb attached to the ceiling springing to life. Another set of doors opened, one aged metal while the other creaked of solid wood, before Cooper headed towards him with a welcoming smile on dark features. He skirted around the parked motorcycle, his tattered baggy jeans and long sleeved gray tee shirt brushing the side and his old boots scuffling against concrete. The grate was pulled open and Prophet was invited in, the umbrella in hand taken from him and shaken before propped against the door safely. Once they were inside where he could see the other man properly, Prophet realized that he seemed genuinely pleased to see him.

As Prophet followed him inside, he paused for a few moments to observe the loft décor. Sections of the floor plan were separated by metal support beams and antique wooden foldable walls. Candles across surfaces assisted the dimmed lighting, giving it a comfortable glow that felt welcoming and calm. Bookshelves were skewed about, littered with various books he couldn't read the names of and trinkets he found strangely fascinating. Paintings were scattered about, some hung on walls because they were finished while others were one easels staged on one portion of the loft that seemed to be centralized for painting supplies. All of them, must of Prophet's concern, were painted in the same grays, blacks, whites, and reds, and resembled some form of murder scene never seen before. Which was truly disconcerting when he thought about the representation behind each one.

A single table sat towards the kitchen area, surrounded by the foldable walls and few potted fern plants and other bookshelves. Prophet could see someone sitting at the table with his head down against the wood, but couldn't get a clear view of who he was just yet. He did see the chess board placed to one side and the stack of paperwork to the other. The kitchen area itself was a long counter resembling a bar with few metal cushioned stools pushed in front of it. A tea metal kettle whistled on the stove top, a small glass mason jar of crushed tea leaves and a ceramic coffee cup on the cutting board counter beside it.

"He's jet-lagged. Tea always helps more than coffee." Cooper stated quietly as he headed for the steaming pot and removed it from the burner, clicking off the stove and pouring the water into a second metal pot before adding a spoonful of the tea leaves.

Prophet turned his attention to the center table at the sound of paper shuffling and a mumbled slew of words he couldn't distinguish. From the position opposite Cooper, he could see the man in question dragging a tan hooded jacket sleeve against the polished surface towards the stack of paperwork. At that rate, he was going to knock them to the floor. Judging by his posture, Prophet estimated that he was only in his mid twenties. No more than twenty five at the most. His face was still pressed into the table motionlessly, dark short hair unruly in the sense that it made him appear like a teenager rather than anyone else. The motion was sloppy and uncoordinated, which suggested he wasn't truly aware of his actions as sleep demanded attention. The swing of holey tatted jean clad legs and black socks against wooden flooring meant he was probably dreaming too.

That explained why Cooper kept his voice low.

"Is that the guy you were telling me about?" Prophet whispered with a jab of his finger over his shoulder at the other man.

Cooper did tell him a small amount pertaining to his new teammate. His name was Mick Rawson, born in Wales but raised in the foster system of London with his younger sister. Supposedly he spent six years fighting in the British SAS from the time he was nineteen. And between missions he worked with Interpol to catch international serial killers. The only credits to his name that the FBI would even consider were that given by the British SAS and Interpol. Prophet imagined it took a lot more to get him out of the SAS and to the FBI than it did to get himself out of prison.

He sounded like a notable asset to the team. But Prophet knew there was something more to it.

"It is. He'll be staying here for the next month until I can help him find his own apartment. I've got a spare room upstairs. He starts training tomorrow morning at the FBI building after a meeting with Fickler. I'm sure you two can become acquainted over paperwork." Cooper replied with a nod of his head.

"Paperwork? I have a hard enough time understanding everything I had to sign months ago. Somehow I don't think I'll be any help…"

He stopped in mid sentence as the swoosh of paperwork from the table followed a scuffle, a curse in what Prophet assumed was Welsh, and the distinct echo of a knife being drawn from a sheath.

Cooper dropped the lid to the mason jar and rushed for the younger man, placing himself between Prophet and Mick without a word. Prophet stood on his toes to see Mick blink at Cooper hazily, features pale and drawn and in desperate need of a shave. He looked as though he was going to be sick, like his stomach was twisting into knots at whatever he had been dreaming about in rhythm with the rapid intakes of air, and Prophet knew by the vice grip on the military issue combat knife in one hand that the younger man didn't know the difference between reality and a dream instantly. Cooper kept his hand outward and open, portraying that he wasn't a threat as he whispered something Prophet couldn't hear. After a few tense seconds his shoulders sagged a few centimeters and Cooper was able to gently pry the knife from his grip, placing it on the table and out of sight.

"It was just a nightmare. It wasn't real. Just breathe." Cooper instructed quietly with a firm grip on the other man's shoulder, shaking him every few seconds to kept rouse him back to the present.

Prophet teetered on his heels nervously as he watched them, stepping aside to gain a better view. He didn't know what to do or say. Nothing sounded correct, no matter how many times he played it through his head within the ninety seconds it took Mick to realize that he was staring. When he caught the harsh glare in dark eyes, he ceased his anxious movements and offered what he hoped was a reassuring expression.

"Who the bloody hell are you?" He asked with a heavy breath, accent bitter and rough as he tried to calm himself.

"This is Prophet. I told you about him, remember?" Cooper responded calmly, shaking his shoulder lightly again.

Mick furrowed his brow as he looked up at him, seemingly trying to remember. Then he nodded briefly, turning back to Prophet with a less threatening posture. "Right, of course. I'm a bit jet-lagged so this headache is makin' me unpleasant. Sorry about that." He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, digging into the sockets and he shrank into the chair with an exaggerated sigh.

Prophet shrugged away the apology with a wince of sympathy, stuffing his hands in his jacket pocket and offering a better smile than he had forced before. He knew the effects of jet-lag from personal experience. Headaches, insomnia, irritability, disorientation, those were just the few he could remember immediately. It wasn't necessarily dangerous but it was a nuisance until the body's internal clock became accustomed to the new time zone. He waited until Cooper removed his grip from the other man, watching him return to the tea on the counter, then slid one of the chairs out from under the table opposite Mick and flopped down ungracefully. His smile fell away as the other man flinched, stiffening to draw himself rigid and glancing at the knife left on the edge of the table out of his reach.

Hyper vigilance or paranoia?

Prophet had seen both over the course of his career. Generally, it wasn't part of jet-lag, but of an underlying psychological condition. Sometimes in unsubs suffering from Schizophrenia or some other mental illness, though those were generally rare. Victims he had interviewed during cases always stayed five feet from others at the least and tended to sleep with some kind of weapon under their pillow at night. Even in few who suffered from a severe anxiety disorder such as Post Traumatic Stress Disorder in war veterans.

However, Cooper wouldn't have allowed someone who was clinically paranoid and hyper vigilant to work cases. The most gruesome photo or crime scene or firefight could have triggered something that could have jeopardized the entire team. Moreover, Prophet didn't feel confident of someone with that level of hyper vigilance giving him cover should he get into some kind of trouble. While the hyper vigilance makes people incredibly aware of their surroundings, it also makes them more likely to have some form of panic attack when they are needed most.

"Jet-lag, huh?" Prophet muttered, trying to divert his thoughts. It was challenging when he noticed the gaunt tone to the other man's features, the insomnia as clear as day and the headache and stress creating dark circles beneath his eyes.

"International flights tend to do that." Mick retorted with a shrug. "You would think a trip from London would be a straight hop over the pond. But the flight was rerouted twice. First time through Dublin because there was something wrong with one of the engines, then through Philadelphia before it landed at Washington International. That's twelve damned hours stuck in a cabin with screaming children and blokes that wouldn't shut the hell up and women who kept asking for my number. I swear, at one point I was seriously considering jumping out over the Atlantic and swimming back home."

Prophet couldn't help but smirk at the thought. He had used commercial flights before and they were rarely ever pleasant. If his assessment was correct, then Mick's paranoia only made that stress drastically worse. "Somehow I doubt you could swim all the way back to London, man."

"I could try."

"And get eaten by sharks on your way."

He shrugged again, forcing a smirk in amusement that contradicted the stiff posture. "Maybe. They'd have to catch me first." His response was cocky, arrogant, humorous, and childish in nature, which Prophet assumed was a true personality trait.

"Arrogant smartass, aren't you?" Prophet retorted with a grin and a shake of his head. Honestly, the quick banter between them reminded him of his once best friend. Of the verbal puns he used to exchange with Brandon that most misread as fighting. It was refreshing, entertaining, and drew a tired grin on both of them. "Were you born that way or did the SAS drill it into you? I've heard that Welsh folks are generally very proud…"

Mick's grin fell away at the words as he folded his arms with a heavy sigh, posture still tight as he studied Prophet curiously. For a moment, Prophet thought he had inadvertently stepped over the line. He blamed it on the lack of social interaction over the years, which seemed to hamper his once steady tongue towards others. Judging by the grind of Mick's teeth and the harsh gaze, he had accidentally said something inappropriate. "What'd Coop tell you?" Mick questioned commandingly.

'Not nearly as much as you may think." Cooper intervened as he set the cup of tea in front of the younger man and ducked out of sight to collect the paperwork scattered on the floor. "Show a little more respect. We're all on the same team here." Mick reached for the ceramic cup tenuously, swirling the contents before sniffing it. Prophet heard Cooper mumble something undoubtedly in frustration and annoyance before he rose back to his feet with the paperwork in hand. "It's just tea. I used the tealeaves Jenna packed for you and found the instructions on the internet. If you don't trust me not to poison you with it, then trust Jenna."

Jenna, Prophet thought as he watched Mick sip the tea greedily a moment later, must have been his sister. In addition, by the insinuations at her name, she was one of the only few people Mick really did trust. He probably had severe trust issues as well as insomnia. Prophet wasn't sure if that was caused by abusive foster homes in his youth or something he experienced when he was overseas. Either one carried the same result.

Mick, for whatever reason, was undeniably paranoid.

Meaning earning his trust, even in the slightest, was going to be a challenge in itself.

Once Cooper placed the paperwork back on the table, he leaned against the surface with his hands spread on top and looked between the two expectantly. "I don't expect you two to become friends within the first day. But I do expect both of you to work together from now on. Tomorrow afternoon you two can work on the official paperwork for the director. Prophet can help you finish the academy classes because he just graduated again a few months ago."

"Shouldn't be too hard…" Mick muttered as he finished the tea in one final gulp, clutching the mug inches from the table.

"The instructors are a bunch of biased jackasses." Prophet interrupted bluntly, the words falling from his lips in a matter of seconds before he could stop them. It was true, although he probably would not have been so blunt to the instructors themselves, and it was only fair that he warned Mick. They didn't like Prophet because he was a criminal that had only gotten out of prison via an agreement by the new director of the FBI. In a way, he was viewed as a tainted asset. And more than likely, once they learned that an SAS soldier offered a position in a Red Cell team by the director as well, Mick was going to be treated with the same amount of prejudice.

Mick blinked at him in surprise, eyebrows disappearing into his bangs, much in the same fashion as Cooper's expression. But he didn't argue the point, nor did Cooper, and smirked with a shrug. "Sure they are. Sandhurst was the same way. But I don't think they'll give me much grief when I kick their asses in the firearms drills. Not to brag, but I do have the reputation as the best sniper in the British SAS. That's got to count for something, eh?"

Yeah, that counted towards quite a lot.

* * *

Starting over was the hardest decision of Prophet's life. More than agreeing to sign the divorce papers Debra put in front of him in prison, more than beating McCoy to death after Daniel's corpse was found, and certainly more than selling his soul to his fellow criminals in prison. It was the realization that he had something new, something different and better and safer, that imposed the stress on him.

Some portion of him didn't believe he deserved it. Another, something more rational, argued that he _needed_ it.

It had taken months to fall into a comfortable rhythm. Wake at seven o'clock every morning, eat breakfast either with Cooper at the local café or pick it up from the doughnut shop several blocks down the street from his apartment building, then travel to the temporary office Cooper rented to spend the rest of the day solving cold case files. It was simplistic and casual, and Prophet found it rather easy to become immersed in such a routine.

However, that was only after he graduated from the academy again. Before his graduation, life had been a mess of tests and classes and stress.

Therefore, he understood what Mick had to go through in the academy. He understood the courses and instructors were rigorous, his classmates roughly his same age but woefully inexperienced in comparison to a credited soldier, the days long and stressful in themselves. Mick, as much as Prophet found it hard to agree with him on multiple subjects, deserved the same level of assistance that Cooper gave during Prophet's reinstatement into the FBI.

Because unlike Prophet, he was not starting a new life in a familiar country after years of imprisonment for a crime. He had a life in London with foster parents and sisters that loved him. At least that was what Prophet assumed when he heard him mention his family to Cooper days after his arrival to the US. He had just returned from Afghanistan at the end of January. There were no more missions assigned from the SAS or Interpol yet, and Prophet was doubtful Mick would agree to such even if there were. That meant he could have focused solely on the FBI requirements.

Essentially, he was starting over in foreign country and a new job, both of which left him a visible outcast when the drastic differences between England and the Untied States presented themselves.

Therefore, Prophet _understood_, and he tried to assist his adjustment accordingly.

Unfortunately, Mick did not seem to _want_ the help.

A week before his graduation, in late June, Prophet realized that the behavior he had witnessed since his introduction to the sniper was only worsened by the forced assistance. He knew alpha personalities didn't accept help willingly. They despised sympathy and the prospect of weakness. In addition, it became transparent over the course of the weeks that Mick was no exception to that assessment. Prophet had hoped, and Cooper seemed to have the same idea, that Mick would have been more lenient considering his lack of experience in the United States and FBI. He _should_ have accepted the help because he had no other choice.

Prophet had admittedly tried to be friendly. He tried to invite Mick to the bar opposite Cooper's loft on the weekend nights, to breakfasts at the local café and lunches at the country dinner down the street. However, he only agreed if Cooper attended as well. At the bar, he flirted with a handful of women and usually left with one or two for a cheap motel before the bar shut down for the night, then returned to Cooper's loft sometime before Prophet arrived to invite them for breakfast, hung-over and disgustingly arrogant about his escapades the night before. No, Prophet did not need nor wanted to know the details of such. The lunches and dinners were met with a disturbing amount of paranoia. Mick refused to sit next to anyone else or an open window, flirted with the waitresses that willingly gave their cell phone numbers on napkins, and profiled every other person in the room as if he were afraid any one of them were going to open fire upon the customers.

Paranoia, hyper vigilance, insomnia, unwillingness for close contact from others unless completely wasted on alcohol, and refusal towards assistance and crowded places. All signs pointed to a psychologically disturbed and tormented mind. It was hidden fairly well, yet not well enough.

However, when Cooper was called by Fickler on a late Friday afternoon, urgently requesting his presence at the FBI building almost an hour away, Prophet knew Mick's hostile attitude had caught up with him. He didn't argue with Cooper about driving them to the building, even though Cooper was hesitant to agree, because he wasn't just going to sit in the office and study cold case files while one of his team was in trouble.

"He got himself into some kind of trouble because of his attitude, didn't he?"

Ten minutes before they arrived at the parking garage, Prophet decided to question the behavior that had been nagging at him since the first day they met with Cooper. His car stopped at a red light for a few minutes, waiting for the opposing stream of vehicles to subside and the light to change. The interior was an old craft of wood and gray upholstery, the stench of dust and dirt that had once layered the surfaces faded, a buzz of a classic nineties rock band from the dimmed radio speakers breaking the silence between them. Outwards, the wipers against the windshield squeaked in time with the movements to dispel the afternoon rain, sunlight peaking over the diminishing clouds overhead, and the temperature rising indicative of the summer flash storm.

Beside him in the passenger seat, Cooper glanced at him with the same tense expression he had been carrying since the phone call from Fickler interrupted their casework. On his knee sat a hand-sized frayed black leathered notebook, splayed open with a pen in hand inches from page Cooper had been sketching in. Prophet couldn't determine what he was drawing, but it seemed to keep his mind busy from the troubling thoughts of their other teammate.

Cooper never went into detail, but Prophet could see that he and Mick were close friends. Mick felt comfortable around the older man, much in the relationship of brothers in arms or even a father figure. It was hinted on a few occasions that they even served overseas together, which insinuated that Cooper had probably gotten him out of several life-threatening situations before.

"Fickler didn't give specifics." He replied fretfully, tapping his boot clad foot against the floor anxiously. "He just said that Mick got in a fight with another student and we need to get there now."

That should have surprised Prophet. However, as he learned days before, when one of the instructors invaded the sniper's personal space as a method of intimidation and received a swift kick to the groin, Mick had a rather bad temper. Especially if he felt threatened.

"Is he usually violent, or is it just because he's still adjusting to everything?" Prophet asked, drumming his finger against the steering wheel as the opposing line of vehicles slowed.

Cooper breathed a sigh, dropping the pen inside the book on his knees before running the same hand over his eyes. He was stressed, Prophet decided, and for obviously good reasons. "He's not usually like this." He stated sincerely. "Really, he's a good kid. But the years of working in the SAS and Interpol, witnessing his teammates get slaughtered in the field because of a war they didn't even sign into and then working some of the most gruesome serial cases Interpol has ever had a hand in, it all just left him trying to understand humanity again. He's only been out of Afghanistan since the last of January, and he won't tell me what happened but I know from a contact that his team was caught in an IED ambush during their last mission and Mick was the only one who made it out in one piece, so he's still becoming used to civilian life again."

Prophet stared at the older man in speechlessness, ignoring the changing light in front of him for several moments to comprehend what he had just heard. He had seen a teammate shot on the field before. Once, the first year he had been working for the FBI, he had even seen one of his closest friends gun downed by a serial sniper during a raid. It was surreal when something like that happened, as if you were living a nightmare that just would not end. Sometimes the feeling lasted for days until the funeral, until reality sank in like a ton of bricks in the pit of your stomach. From what Prophet had seen in few others, the feeling never really ebbed away completely.

Losing a teammate in the field was rough to begin with. However, in a war zone, seeing close friends blown to pieces directly in front of you on more than one occasion was so much worse.

Suddenly Mick's behavior made perfect logical sense.

The blare of the car horn behind him drew Prophet's attention to the road again. He gripped the steering wheel for a moment longer, glaring at the hatchback car behind him in the rear view in annoyance, and stepped on the gas to ease back into traffic.

"Has he been tested for PTSD?" He blurted the next thought cautiously, unsure of how Cooper would respond to the underlying assumption.

Cooper nodded briskly and replied, "After he returned to London. His foster parents tricked him into talking with a psychologist. He caught on to what they were doing half an hour into the lunch and purposefully answered the questions in a way that contradicted her criteria paperwork. He lied and because it was so damned convincing, the psychologist could not get a proper reading on him. His foster mother contacted me afterwards and asked if there was anything I could do. The only thing I could think of was to get him into a new environment without the pressure everyone else back in SAS and Interpol was giving him. It's just taking some time to take full effect."

Prophet frowned at him, turning the car onto the street with the parking garage just ahead. That was some form of advanced reverse psychology. To be honest, Prophet was finding it hard to understand in its entirety. He understood the idea behind bringing him into a new environment without the constant pressure from SAS and Interpol. Surely, his family could have provided the necessary support to compensate. Unless the family, like Prophet's, had been unsupportive of his time overseas and therefore did not desire to help. Prophet had the suspicion that Jenna adored her brother, which meant it was possible that she was the only tether keeping it together.

"So he's just traumatized?" He questioned, slowing the car as the parking garage grew closer.

Cooper seemed to mull over his response, then offered another curt nod in agreement. "Basically. But I wouldn't say that to him directly. Not unless you want to get your ass kicked. And trust me when I say that despite his size, he's quick on his feet and knows how to defend himself remarkably well." He paused for a moment to sigh, closing his notebook with a snap and stuffing it in his jacket pocket as the car turned into the parking garage entrance. "That's what I'm afraid of in this instance. That some punk pissed him off or threatened him and he defended himself on instinct. The last person who really threatened him, he had him on the floor and in a chokehold before I could stop him. Damn near almost cost him his job in Interpol and SAS for that one."

Somehow, Prophet couldn't doubt that.

* * *

"He put the guy in the hospital with two broken ribs, both arms dislocated, and a cracked skull from smashing his head into the floor repeatedly, Sam. I can't just let that slide. It's damned lucky he didn't kill him. Otherwise things could be much worse for everyone." Director Fickler all but shouted, tone crass and frustrated through the partially closed oak door of his office.

_Two broken ribs, both arms dislocated, and a cracked skull from smashing his head into the floor repeatedly._

Prophet had gotten into physical hand-to-hand fights with others before. He was quite skilled at the art of self-defense, if he were honest with himself. In his younger teenage years, it involved other teenagers in his school. Most of the time it concerned which girlfriend he had at the time that left him for another fellow football teammate, or the bullies that he had stopped from beating one of the younger kids from the science and chess clubs for their lunch money. When he joined the FBI, he found that few unsubs dared to confront him personally. The scarce few who did were usually driven into unconsciousness by a tight choke-hold and a swift slam of his fist against their temple. During his prison years, he tried to avoid the riots that broke out and the gang fights. Unfortunately, he had gotten in the middle of a few. Simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time had left him with a few scars for show. However, he found that using his larger posture and long limbs to his advantage tended to lead to less bloodshed.

However, never in his years, aside from the blind rage he used against McCoy, which he honestly didn't remember all the details of, had he caused someone else that amount of physical injuries. He used to spout curses that would have made a sailor blush when he was pissed at the world. Alternatively, purposefully break something in frustration because it was better than attacking someone else. Never had he actually attacked someone without a damned good reason.

McCoy gave him a damned good reason.

For Mick, someone who stole from him and then broke said item to throw it back in his face was a damned good reason as well.

Fickler hadn't told Prophet everything, but he said enough to paint a basic description before dragging Cooper in his office to discuss what sort of punishment Mick was going to receive for his actions. And Mick's furious expression as he sat on the floor in front of the waiting chairs outside the office, hair tousled as if he had been dragging his hands through it in stress and navy blue hooded jacket ruffled and ripped on the shoulder seam from his fight, suggested that the fight hadn't been one sided at all.

Supposedly, and Prophet wasn't sure how much was entirely accurate, one of the younger academy students had been known to bully the newer students as if they were in high school. During the last physical training test just two hours before, they had just finished the timed run course and then ordered to go shower and meet their instructor in a classroom when they were finished for their last written test. After the shower, when Mick was dressing in the locker room, the student found his personal bag and stole Mick's CD player and headphones. Mick found him listening to it, they argued and Mick demanded for its return. When the student refused, Mick cursed his entire lineage in a rather disgusting display of profanity. The student then proceeded to snap the headphone wires and throw them at Mick's feet. Then smashed the CD player and the CD inside to pieces and kicked them at him.

After that, the witnesses stated that it was a mess of fists and feet and blood.

Because the incident took place in the Quantico building, which was just over an hour drive time from the Washington federal building, and Fickler demanded to see Mick personally after the incident, he traveled via helicopter to the federal building.

Mick, other than a few bruised ribs he was tenuous of, was unharmed by the entire fight. He was pissed, grinding his teeth and mumbling to himself in Welsh as he tried to repair his belongings with super glue and tape, but physically unscathed. Considering the student was larger than him that was quite telling towards Cooper's previous warnings.

While he physically unharmed, psychologically he was a wreck.

Prophet stayed two seats away, watching carefully but not saying a word. He drummed his fingers on the leg of his jeans to keep himself otherwise occupied, allowing himself to consider what he was observing exactly whilst listening to Fickler and Cooper argue just beyond the office door. Thankfully, the hall was empty save for the secretary desk, and the woman who had been sitting behind it had disappeared to the bathroom ten minutes before. Other than Fickler's office, the only adjacent room was a locked janitor closet and a fire escape stairwell door.

He tried to understand the few English words slurred by Mick's accent, but it was difficult to discern between English and Welsh exactly. Surprisingly enough, Mick didn't seem to care that Prophet was staring at him. He just sat cross-legged on the floor with the pieces of his CD player scattered in front of him, a role of office tape and a bottle of super glue most likely conned from the secretary in the midst, and frantically attempted to fix it. Prophet knew by the amount of broken plastic and board pieces that it wasn't going functional anymore.

Mick couldn't fix the CD player, the CD, or the headphones. For whatever reason, instead of replacing them with new, he was on the verge of shooting the next person that he came across because he was enraged.

Prophet profiled that it was a subconscious reaction rooted from the fact that he probably didn't have much of anything during his younger years. He protected what he did own vigorously, and Prophet could understand that because he did the same after Debra took the majority of his own personal possessions. They became something to hold onto when he had nothing left; physical objects that mounted him in the real world of possibilities that maybe one day he could have been a free man again. Therefore, the fact that someone had stolen from Mick and then proceeded to break it was inexcusable.

Mick's reaction, in Prophet's eyes, was justifiable.

"The guy stole from him and then broke the items in front of him. What did you honestly expect was going to happen? You know as well as I do that men like Mick don't take well to theft or loss of something personal…" Cooper's voice drifted through the wooden barrier just loud enough to capture Prophet's attention.

"He's not a child, Sam!" Fickler interrupted with a slam of his fist on his desk. The noise echoed through the hall, making Prophet react by leaning forward in his seat rigidly. Mick jumped at the noise, posture tightening as he looked towards the door with large eyes in full alert. "He's a damned adult! It's about damned time he acts like it!" Fickler continued, lowering his tone after a few moments. "I know you two are close friends, but you can't protect him. The fact is that he's damaged and he's a liability. I told you that in February when you tried to convince me to let him join. I told you that in 2004 when you wanted to go back to London after they returned home. You need to realize that he is not a stray puppy you can pick up off the street and turn into a reliable watchdog. A reliable team isn't made of tragic pasts like that. They can't be trusted when it matters most."

_They._ Not _he._ But _they_.

As if to say, that Mick wasn't the only mentally unstable person on the team. It sounded like Fickler was insinuating that Prophet was as well. That Cooper had tried to create a team of misfits because they were brilliant. But they were too mentally scarred to be of any real use to the FBI because there was too much baggage beneath it all. They were a _liability_, and therefore didn't deserve a position at the FBI in a Red Cell team. Regardless of IQ status or records that stated otherwise.

They didn't _deserve_ a second chance at life.

Fickler didn't have to say it. Prophet read between the lines because it was simple. That was one of his reputable traits at one time. It wasn't fair, he seethed wordlessly as he locked his jaw into a scowl and studied the door, gripping his knees until his fingers began to ache. What the hell did Fickler know? Prophet had spent six years, three months, and four days in a federal prison in California for the justifiable murder of the bastard who slaughtered his six-year-old son. He had lost his life in a heartbeat, and spent the past several months just trying to start a new one. Cooper gave him a second chance because he believed Prophet was going to use it wisely. So far, Prophet had done just that.

He could only assume that Cooper gave a similar offer to Mick in some fashion. A new country to fight for, a new home and family without the pressures his previous life was driving down upon him like an overbearing weight.

Cooper had saved both of them from themselves. It wasn't fair that Fickler didn't see the same thing Cooper did. That he didn't believe that they even deserved a second chance to live again.

Prophet was going to intervene. He was going to burst into the office and explain that if Cooper hadn't gotten him out of prison, if Cooper hadn't put him back on solid ground, he probably would have hung himself in prison. It didn't matter that doing so would have been the end of his career in the FBI. That if he was to argue with the director, he probably wasn't going to be dealt with the same amount of understanding and leniency as Cooper had given him. He rose to his feet regardless, clenching his fists to contain his temper, and closed the gap between himself and the door in two long strides.

Cooper was there to stop him though. He pulled the door open before Prophet could lay a finger on the surface, one hand still gripping the door handle and the other held outward to stop him. Stern dark eyes trailed to Mick behind Prophet, who had risen to his knees at the sound of the door as if he were going to stand at a moments notice, and gave a nod in silent order to stand down. Prophet could see the frustration boiling in his features, the tight set of his jaw that clearly meant he was refraining from being unnecessarily blunt with Fickler, and knew in a heartbeat that there was only one possible outcome for the situation.

Prophet's rant on the tip of his tongue wouldn't have helped in the slightest.

Cooper leaned just slightly closer to Prophet and whispered, "I got this."

Meaning he was going to defend Prophet and Mick. He was going to be the fall guy, vouch his entire reputation on the people he chose for his team, and Prophet found himself immensely grateful at the notion. Cooper had been able to get him out of prison before his sentence was finished. Prophet was sure he could have talked the director into showing a bit more lenience and understanding if he tried hard enough.

At Prophet's short nod in agreement, Cooper shut the door with an audible click. That left Prophet to attend to Mick, who had turned back to his scattered pieces after mumbling something Prophet didn't quite understand through his accent. He forced himself to relax, trying to remember the calming techniques he used to rely on when his temper threatened to get the better of him. Then finally exhaled after a few moments and felt the physical signatures of his anger start to ebb away.

He approached Mick cautiously, keeping himself in front of the younger sniper and at least two feet away at all times. Sidestepping a few of the pieces, he sank to his knees and finally managed to sit cross-legged opposite him. Mick had him on age and physical health and some aspects. It always took Prophet an extra five seconds to pull himself off the floor than Mick. Because of that, Prophet envied the youthfulness the Welshman still had. To be quite blunt, age was a nasty bastard that decided to make itself known just after Prophets thirty-ninth birthday just six months before.

Mick didn't remove his gaze from Prophet, even as Prophet just placed his hands on his knees and returned the look equally. He was still hyper vigilant to a fault at that point, noticing everything in seconds that seemed to be longer to Prophet than himself. One hand hovered over a piece of the broken CD, another inches from the attaching piece.

Prophet noticed the designs on the CD because he had the same one. It was one of the few that Debra left him because she hadn't been a fan of the band as he had. She liked a few songs, but not the majority of their albums. The album in question was from an American band, primarily alternative rock or 1990s grunge, and certainly not what Prophet expected a prideful Welshman like Mick to listen to in his free time. The CD itself was old and scratched in several places, the pieces less smooth to indicate that it had been put to good use over the years, the top label torn in places and stained with who knew what.

It was just _unexpected._

"_Stone Temple Pilots_?" It was more of a statement because Prophet already knew the answer. He was just curious as to how Mick would have responded.

His eyes fell down to the pieces, the frown on his face loosening microscopically. "You've got the same album, eh?" He questioned quietly, snatching the pieces and the tape in one fluid movement.

Prophet nodded, hoping the reassuring expression on his face seemed sincere enough. "It's one of my favorites. Maybe I can help you find another copy. There's a music store a few blocks from my apartment building. They sell all kinds of used oldies for a decent price…"

"I don't want a damned new one." Mick interrupted bitterly when the tape refused to hold the two pieces together. He slammed it to the carpet a second later, running his fingers over the sharp edges dangerously. Something about that particular CD was special. Prophet didn't know why or how, he just knew that Mick wasn't going to settle for a new one. Either someone important had given him the CD, or it held a deeper sentimental value in the essence of it once belonged to someone else.

"You know, man, we do live in the twenty first century. There's such a thing as MP3s and IPOD and downloadable music files." Perhaps that was a bit hypocritical. Prophet had a 2002 IPOD Debra had bought him before the nightmare started. Unfortunately, Debra took it during the divorce as well, and he hadn't had the desire to purchase a new one since his release. Besides, in his opinion, a CD had better clarity than an MP3 file ever did.

Mick pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut as if to ward off an approaching headache, holding his breath for several seconds before exhaling exaggeratedly. "Yeah, I know that. I've got an MP3 back home. Apparently, I was so busy in everything else involved with moving to the States that I missed a bag. It's on the way, but it'll take another week to pass through customs because it had some other stuff that will probably raise some questions in it too."

"Other stuff like what?"

He shrugged nonchalantly, seemingly realizing that he wasn't going to fix the device on the floor of the FBI building with super glue and tape as he started to compile the pieces in a small stack. Prophet didn't dare try to touch them because he knew it wouldn't have ended well. "Some old dog tags from my first stint in Afghanistan, a few of the awards and medals I got during service, a couple rifle shell casings, and half my collection of burner mobiles…" He rambled for a moment, stopping as he looked back up at Prophet and narrowed his eyes in distrust. "Why do you care? Not to sound like an ass or anything…"

"First, because I was just curious. Second, your paranoia does make you look like a jackass. Is that on purpose, or are you afraid someone is going to come and eat you alive or something at any given moment in time? Because if you do, then you might want to get checked out for paranoid schizophrenia." Prophet replied briskly.

Mick stared at him for a moment, mouth agape and response on the tip of his tongue. Then his posture changed from pissed at the world and all who inhabited it, to brutally sincere as his brow furrowed in thought. A flash of a smirk ghosted his lips. "You're the first person that's ever said it that bluntly before. Everyone else just assumes I've got some untreated PTSD or something. I mean, no it's not on purpose. I didn't think I was being paranoid. I was just being careful."

"There's a fine line between being careful and being paranoid." Prophet replied. "Since the first time we met, you have been leaning more towards paranoid than anything else. And I didn't understand why until Cooper told me what happened on your last mission in the SAS. I can't even image what it must have been like to watch your teammates and friends get murdered like that."

He expected the sniper to lash out at him for the comment about his previous war days. Any questions pertaining to his stint in the British SAS had always resulted in a warning glare to drop the subject or a blatant refusal to respond. There was a decent reason for such, Prophet knew and understood that. However, Mick's latest behavior meant that the silence of it all was eating away at him. He just needed a friend, someone other than Cooper he could confide in without judgment, and Prophet wasn't entirely sure he could do that.

He sure as hell could try.

Mick, instead of shutting down about the subject, dropped his eyes to the pile of pieces in front of him. "The CD belonged to my foster brother. We were stationed in Iraq together between the time I was nineteen and twenty-one. He used to play this damned thing over and over again." He paused to draw a heavy breath. The tired features highlighted the edging sorrow beneath the surface, the sincerity that he couldn't mask despite his best efforts. Prophet was almost afraid to hear what happened to the sniper's foster brother. Whatever it was hadn't been good, otherwise he wouldn't have clung to the CD so tightly. "I was listening to it earlier before classes started. That bloody arshole broke it, so I repaid the favor."

Prophet blinked at him in surprise, stunned for a moment. It wasn't the mention of a brother that surprised him. He expected Mick to have more than one sibling, blood related or not, that he didn't talk about openly because he was a very private person in nature. It was the carelessness underneath that startled him the most.

True, the person did steal from him and then started the fight by breaking it. However, he had just bruised a few ribs on Mick. Mick had actually put him the _hospital _in retaliation. He could have killed the man if a few of the other students hadn't pulled him off the guy. Moreover, he didn't show any remorse for it.

If the voice in the back of Prophet's head was correct, then Mick felt his actions were justified. Even if they logically and professionally were not.

"You do realize that you could be charged with assault, right?" Prophet asked pointedly.

Mick raised an eyebrow in response and shrugged. "It was self defense. He threw the first punch. I warned him that if he didn't give it back, then I would have to take it from him. You see how well that went."

"Who taught you how to fight like that? Because I've got say, taking down someone a lot bigger than you with only a few bruised ribs is pretty damned impressive."

A smirk flashed on the sniper's face as he answered honestly, "He did. My brother, I mean. He was the best hand-to-hand combat fighter SAS had for a while. Taught me everything I know about how to stay on your toes and when to throw a punch. We used to have these bets going on between some of the others in the camp. Most of the time he'd kick my ass hands down. But I did manage to win a few."

"Past tense." Prophet mumbled to himself, internally cursing himself when Mick gave him a confused expression. "Everything you mentioned about your brother was past tense. Like he's dead…"

"He's not." Mick corrected instantly. When he continued, it was more to the effect of hesitance and reluctance to admit the truth. "He's not dead. He just never came back from Iraq. Not as the same person I knew, anyways."

That was when Mick's actions started to make sense. The CD belonged to a beloved foster brother, a mentor of sorts that probably raised him and cared for him like family, and the same brother never came back from war in one piece. Which meant Mick was still holding onto whatever was left of his brother, not the shell of the man he used to call family, because that was all there was left of him. When the bully broke the CD, something snapped and he lost his temper.

Which was probably the same point Cooper was arguing with Fickler at that very moment.

"Tell ya what," Prophet responded, his rooted southern accent presenting itself for just a moment before he shoved it away, trying to mask his sympathy because he knew how much Mick despised it. "We'll put the CD back together. It won't ever play again. So I'll drive you to the music store and you can pick out whatever music you want. I'll even foot the bill."

"Why would you do that?" Mick asked in confusion, fumbling with a wayward piece of plastic in hand.

Because Prophet could sympathize with him. For the first time since they met, he felt like there was something they could stand for on common ground. He knew how difficult life had been when everything was taken from him, when all he had left was a box of miscellaneous junk that captured the better days he tried to hang onto. So he understood why Mick clung to something that had the same effect from his brother.

Cooper had helped Prophet stand again, and it seemed that his attempts to do the same for Mick weren't going as planned. Therefore, Prophet decided with a quick smirk towards the younger man, he was going to assist as much as he possibly could.

"Call it a late birthday gift. That should hold you until your MP3 gets here, right?" That was just an excuse of sorts. Prophet hadn't gotten him anything on his birthday back in April because he didn't know it was his birthday until later that night. Cooper invited them for a night at the bar across his loft, and had given him a new book he had been searching for the past week. They had kept the celebrations to a minimum as preferred by Mick.

Mick cocked his head to the side and studied him, as if trying to find the ulterior motive behind the words. There wasn't one. Prophet wasn't lying or trying to deceive him in some fashion. He was just trying to make him see that paranoia and hyper vigilance, although probably kept him alive in war zones, had no justifications in modern society. Someone wasn't going to shoot him with a sniper rifle or steal from him without a reason. Whether it was because the person was an average jackass, they were a reoccurring criminal in some way, or they were provoked. There was a reason for it, and keeping yourself out of the limelight tended to be better than being noticeably outwardly paranoid.

"Thanks, mate." Mick stated after a tense few seconds, visibly relaxing just enough to prove that he understood.

They weren't friends. Prophet didn't expect that until he became better adjusted to civilian life again. Nevertheless, they were teammates, a work in progress, and that was better than the alternative. It was just going to take time. This was a start though, finding common ground, and that was all Prophet could ask for.

He had a team again, although there were two more members Cooper had yet to recruit, which was entirely opposite from his previous life. This was a surrogate family, a man he admired and owed his life to and a sniper battling his own demons. Fickler may not have agreed with it, but Prophet couldn't care less. He had something substantial again, and he wasn't going to allow politics to tear it apart for a second time.

* * *

Note- Ta-da! Finally! It's finished! This took forever to finish, and I apologize for that. Between trying a new perspective which always takes a bit longer, and the fact that my younger sister is in the hospital again with another lung infection thanks to the damned cold virus that was going around (She's got Cystic Fibrosis), writing has been a bit difficult.  
So, just a quick few points towards this. I wanted to do something with Prophet this time because it was in my head for a while and wouldn't leave me alone. This shows how he got out of prison and gives a lot of background that will be useful later. It also shows how he joined the team. Mick, naturally, comes in second. That part really plays into the first one shot I posted as far as Mick's attitude. In the first one shot it wasn't nearly as bad. This just shows how it started and how Prophet and him found common ground to work with. Which is the base behind their friendship, really. I will expound on that further because it's interesting. Lastly, I mentioned Liam in a vague sense as to not mess up the current story line. Prophet didn't exactly put the pieces together. Therefore that coincides with his reaction when he learned the truth about what happened to Liam.  
I think that's all for now. You know what to do, right? Reviews are loved and appreciated. A huge thanks to all who have read, reviewed, and subscribed to my work so far!


	12. This Fire

Intermission

This Fire

Summary- On April thirtieth, 1991, an arsonist murdered Marc and Katherine Rawson. Mick didn't remember every detail of that day, but he remembered more than he wanted to.

Rated teen for themes. Northing explicit though. There are no pairings exactly. There are spoilers for my previous stories and the current story in my main arc. You might want to read those if you haven't already. This plays directly into the main story arc and adds a lot of details and mystery as to what happened to Mick's parents. This took a bit longer to finish than anticipated because I had to be careful. I didn't want to reveal or hint to anything crucial in the storyline too soon. This is my seventh take on the story and by far the best I could come up with.

No one beta reads my work, although I wouldn't refuse, so any grammar and spelling mistakes are my own. Please don't verbally kill me for a typo.

Sadly I do not own anything involving Criminal Minds Suspect Behavior. The only things I can claim are my own characters, story plots, and imagination.

Now, to the story!

* * *

'_Deliberate Violence is more to be quenched than a fire.' - Heraclitus_

* * *

Fearlessness is a misconception of youth and arrogance.

It's only natural to fear something in life. Fear is humane and instinctual, sometimes unexplainable in its origins, yet dismissed by so many. Being afraid of something roots to a solid reality and that is one of the defining traits behind the general status quo of people. Without such fears, whether spoken aloud or not, the psyche becomes numb. Numbness leads to the mindset of a psychopath, which breeds the worst kinds of people possible.

Therefore, fear is necessary, despite what some would claim. Without it, there is nothing to separate right from wrong. Morality becomes foreign and lost in the sea of egos and false acceptance.

For Mick Rawson, that was a philosophical concept he was too young to understand. His father explained it years ago when he was barely over seven years old and still living an innocent life in Penarth, Wales. At the time, he didn't understand. His father reasoned that it was important to know because it would keep him safe as he grew older. Nevertheless, Mick doubted such a thing, didn't _want_ to accept it as it led to the assumption of weakness.

That was not to say he _was _fearless. In his youth he was terrified of the pitch black, the depths of the ocean that could swallow him whole, and the inability to control his surroundings. Few of those fears stayed with him through teenage years, as well as several new ones. The dark was still unknown and terrifying, as if monsters were waiting just out of reach to smother him. Abandonment followed when all he had left was his little sister because family didn't _want _them. He hadn't been to the ocean since the day his parents were murdered, so fear of the depths of the ocean fell away some years ago.

Then there was _fire_, paralyzing and searing and disgusting _fire_.

In innocence, there was no paralyzing fear of fire or abandonment. Life was simple and stress was nonexistent. It didn't leave him breathless with plaguing nightmares, or hardened his morality until he was sure he was psychologically numb like the monsters he locked away forever. He didn't dream of fire and gruesome murders, of the night his parents were whisked away in a blast of heat and burning fire that singed the world around him. He was _innocent_, and somehow someone was able to strip it all away until he was an unrecognizable shell, a past fading memory of a brilliant young Welsh boy just trying to learn everything the world had to offer.

Everything Mick feared in life was rational. It stemmed from a reason, a single event that imprinted itself on memory like a phrase etched into marble. He may have been afraid of the dark since he was five years old after a nightmare concerning a _Doctor Who Cyberman_ coming out of his bedroom closet, but the basis behind his more recent fears related to one particularly agonizing night.

It was the thirtieth of April, a Tuesday if memory served him. The year was 1991, and Mick had just turned eight years old almost two and a half weeks before. His sister, Jenna, was due to turn four years old in less than a week.

Memories pertaining to that day were faded in portions, sections lost over time, segments filled by imagination in hopes to make some _sense_ of the events. Pieces of the day were clear whilst others were simply obscured accounts void of any details. The majority of the day was spotty, exact conversations indecipherable, details nothing more than quick flashes strung together in whichever order his subconscious dictated. He was too young, too traumatized by the events, to remember exact quotes or seemingly unimportant details. That had been a joke since his days with Liam, regarding the holes in his memory despite the photographic nature it contained.

In his defense, that night was the first time he had ever received a head injury of any kind.

However, Mick had always been a very observant child. Details drew his attention, fascinated him to no end, because he saw the world in a different light than the majority of others his age. When most just saw an ocean stretching as far as the eye could see, Mick saw the waves lapping against the sandy shore and the glistening reflection of sunlight on the surface. He saw individual stars overhead at night, each as unique as a fingerprint, whereas others only noticed the more obvious differences. Everything had a place and a story, and Mick had become accustomed to such unique observations as a key notion to his daily routine.

Therefore, he _knew_ when something was amiss in the Rawson home.

Obvious changes were a clear sign of something to come.

He knew something was wrong in the eyes of his parents. Something had caused a fuss between them for some time, but it seemed to escalate over the past year. He heard their arguments at times, although he pretended not to for the sake of blissful and youthful ignorance, and he had the sinking feeling that it had bearings to his father's constant work in Cardiff. Most of the time when their arguments grew loud after the pub was closed for the night and they headed off to bed in their home above the business, they spoke in fluent Welsh. Considering only a few locals actually spoke the native tongue that was a common theme to mask the context of their personal conversations from any wayward ears. Mick was rather talented in the language for his age, but it was still his second language. Portions of the words were hard to translate through the walls of the bedroom he shared with his toddler sister.

It never once proceeded to violence; although Mick was sure his father had a temper because he had seen it with a scarce few drunken men who attempted to touch his mother in a derogatory fashion. The prospect of divorce was never truly a worry either. His parents loved each other, which was never debatable. They just argued about something Mick couldn't understand.

Considering he understood much more than others gave him credit for, that was quite disturbing.

Aside from the escalated verbal disagreements, Mick's time alone had been absent. He had plenty of schoolwork to occupy his time, yet he still had the overwhelming desire to spend his hours on the sands rather than in the family pub. The beach had been his place of refuge for as long as he could remember, and the sudden change left him frustrated above all else. He was allowed on the beach only with a chaperone and only for a few hours at a time. If one of his parents couldn't escort him, than one of the family friends who worked in the pub took their place. It was the same arrangement with the field behind the pub where he played football with schoolmates, as well as the small stretch of abandoned road nearby he used to ride his bicycle back and forth on.

They were protecting him. That much became painstakingly transparent. He just didn't understand _why_. They loved him unconditionally and he knew that. However, they had never restricted him in that manner. He never felt as though they were being overbearing until his freedom started to become limited. At one point, for a brief day when he wasn't allowed to play on the football field with his schoolmates after school, he resented them.

He claimed that it wasn't _fair, _that he was _older_ and could make his _own decisions._ But the truth of the matter was simply opposite. Mick was still a child. And he feared abandonment more than anything. He just didn't realize it yet.

A routine had been set since he was five years old. School started at nine every weekday morning and ended at two in the afternoon. He was to wake no later than eight so he could shower, brush his teeth, and eat breakfast in the pub with Jenna and his parents before someone drove him to school. Normally the pub didn't open for public business until nine every morning, and didn't stop serving until eleven. His father had his second job in Cardiff as a private investigator that required his attention a large majority of the time, but he always managed to have breakfast with them before he left. Due to his parent's refusal to allow him on the school bus after it was clipped by another car more than a year ago, one of the family friends and pub workers drove him to and from on a daily basis. Alis and Owen were trusted, and Mick found that he thought of them as his much older siblings at times, so his parents fell into the routine as well.

When that schedule was changed unexpectedly, he knew something was terribly wrong.

Mick briefly recalled waking that morning. The clock mounted on the wall opposite his bed suggested that he overslept, meaning he was late for school by an entire hour. It was still dim in the room due to the drawn curtains and the overcast clouds drizzling spring rain outside. His blankets were warm and thick, the blue hand sown blanket his mother constructed him when he was a newborn was still in the mix, and his red cloth dragon clung tight in the crook of one arm.

One of the unpleasant consequences about having a home above a pub was noise. There were always voices through the insulated flooring, customers chatting and laughing, music in the background that wasn't always from his mothers' piano. Over the years Mick adapted to the noises, turned them into simple lullabies at times when he needed to sleep or nap in his own bed during a busy night. It became soothing, and Mick found himself lost in the clamor rather easily. Therefore the lack of muffled sound, save for the telly in the lounge, was unsettling.

He didn't see Jenna in her own bed opposite his, didn't hear her in the lounge with her vast collection of handmade cloth dolls she played with on a daily basis, and that was even more worrisome. The last time Jenna grew silent and wondered off, he found her _customizing _his dresser with his paint set and crayons. He didn't _dislike _his three-year-old sister. She just had a terrible tendency to be too curious. He wasn't fond of sharing his bedroom with her either, but he didn't have a choice once she grew too old for her crib in their parents' room. There were plans to have the room divided evenly during the coming fall months. Unfortunately, that was never going to happen.

Mick couldn't remember leaving his bedroom. There were short moments where he recalled finding the telly on but no one in the lounge, as if someone had been watching it and just left. He assumed it was his sister again, seeing as she had a tendency to play with the control and leave the room when she became frustrated with it because she couldn't find the cartoon channel.

The next clear memory he had took place in the pub dinning room.

His mother made the standard breakfast of scrambled eggs with cheese, fried bacon and sausage, peanut butter toast specifically for Mick, thick and moist waffles, raisin Welsh cakes, with whole milk and apple juice for the children. The meal was designed with Mick in mind. Weight had been a problem since birth, or rather the inability to gain weight normally in comparison to other children his age, so his pediatrician advised a higher calorie meal. Other than excess vitamins and high calorie foods, there wasn't much anyone could do about it because they had no explanation for it. His mother blamed it on genetics, claiming that she had the same trouble when she was a child.

They occupied the table near the stage with his mother's piano, the rest of the pub completely vacant. Mick questioned why he was not going to school that day, why the pub was closed for business and why Alis and Owen were not having breakfast with them as well. The somber look between his parents lasted for just a moment, grief and a sharpness to their tones confirmed that something was indeed wrong. They disguised it well after realizing that Mick had been staring, forcing a reassuring expression that Mick would have been foolish to believe. All they would say about the issue was they were spending _family time_. Meaning no Alis or Owen, no school or pub or work in Cardiff, just the four of them spending one last day together.

Of course, Mick didn't believe it was that simple.

Jenna chose to play with her food rather than eat it, using plastic fork to draw indescribable messes in the eggs and makeshift distorted cats out of the waffle and bacon. Luckily, his mother knew better than to give Jenna a bath before a meal, so the toddler's pink pajamas took most of the abuse. Her dark hair had been pinned back in pigtails to keep it out of the food, a joyful grin to display her missing front teeth seemed to brighten the tension between them.

His mother appeared distraught and distracted. She only smiled when in the presence of her children, fingering the cross pendant around her neck in a manner Mick recognized as nervousness and anxiety. The necklace was the first anniversary gift his father gave her after they were married. It never left her, just as her wedding ring was never removed. Lines beneath her eyes corresponded insomnia, barely masked with a thin layer of makeup. She hadn't even bothered to paint her nails to match the green blouse and old jeans and white sandals as she normally would, or braid her recently shortened dark hair rather than tie it back messily.

If that wasn't disturbing enough, than the haggard appearance of his father was much worse. It was a slow build for both his parents, a kind of ache that just worsened with time until it became undeniable. His father was a private investigator, and an ex-Royal Marine, so he knew how to lie well. It was an unfortunate skill that Mick seemed to inherit. Because of something involving his work in Cardiff, which he never discussed with his family for security reasons, he had become distant. His features became hardened with his patience, drawn with insomnia and stress, facial hair only shaved haphazardly every few days, short brunette hair disheveled and heavy green eyes remorseful whenever directed towards his children. He chose the standard casual attire of tattered jeans and a buttoned long sleeve when not working on a case in Cardiff, and Mick couldn't help but notice the stiffness and tenderness to his movements when he raised his right arm.

Something happened to cause that. Mick assumed he fought with someone. However, his father was exceedingly talented in self-defense. No one laid a finger on him or his family without permission. Otherwise, they were forcefully _removed_ from the area. Meaning if it was a fight and he was trying to hide it from his children, then the other person had to have gotten one step behind him.

Mick could remember fussing with his breakfast. He wasn't particularly hungry, and the tension between his parents was dense enough to ruin his appetite. Due to his need for order and cleanliness, Mick always had multiple forks with his meals. He never used the same fork for a different food, each utensil had an assigned food and they simply _could not_ cross. So the syrup leaking into the scrambled eggs bothered him just as much as the strangeness between his parents.

The conversation his father started was in pieces. Mick didn't remember how it started, only that they were discussing the plans for the day.

"It's a bit overcast today and it's been raining, so a trip to the park would be too wet. Maybe I can get Mister Argall to lend us a few hours with his fishing boat. We can teach the kids how to fish…" He addressed his wife with a hopeful tone, sipping his coffee as she shook her head adamantly in refusal.

"It's too dangerous." She interrupted with sharpness to her own tone that Mick rarely ever heard, glancing at her children briefly. "They're too young."

"I like the ocean." Mick intervened with a frown, pushing his plate away and dodging a piece of egg Jenna flicked off her fingers towards him.

His parents looked towards him instantly, their expressions softening as his mother offered another false smile. "I know you do, darling. It's just too dangerous to take both of you into the open like that."

"Why?"

His parents shared a look amongst each other, something between understanding and hesitance, remorse and acknowledgment. At that moment, Mick was able to read what wasn't verbally agreed. The protectiveness was to save them, to _protect _Mick and Jenna from something or someone. It had to be linked to whatever happened to his father, to his work in Cardiff and the change life had taken over the past year.

As his mother dropped her gaze to the table and wrung her hands together beneath the table nervously, his father breathed a heavy sigh and propped his elbows on the table. He ran his hand through his hair, another stress trait Mick seemed to inherit, and studied his children somberly for a few moments. When he answered, it was quieter and the most sincere Mick had ever heard from him. "I know you've noticed a lot of the changes we've made recently, Michael, but it's for your own protection. There are many people in the world who wouldn't think twice about hurting you or your sister. It's our job as your parents to make sure they don't succeed."

"But they hurt you." Mick countered with a pointed nod at the older man's right side.

His father nodded in agreement, shifting in the chair uncomfortably. "It's just a few bruises. Nothing that won't fade in a week or so." He paused at the warning glint in his wife's eyes, silently ordering him not to reveal more than necessary. "I know you don't approve of us being so overprotective. When I was your age, I hated the fact that my parents watched over me too. You have to remember that we're doing it because we _have_ to. Because you and Jenna mean the world to us and we would do anything to make sure no one ever touches either of you."

Mick noticed Jenna's silence as she stared at her father with wide eyes, hanging onto every word just as he had. Mick doubted she understood what he was referring to exactly. Hell, he didn't even understand. When his father continued, there was only one plausible explanation.

"I need you to promise us something, Mick." His father stated, stern and demanding but sincere all the same. "If, by some God-awful means within the next several years, something should happen to your mother and me, I need you to take care of your sister. Look after her and yourself. Keep each other safe, no matter what happens. Just promise us that both of you will survive, and you won't ever forget us."

Mick couldn't decline. He hated the implications, hated that his father's words twisted his stomach into knots with the familiar approaching feeling of trouble. The promise was reasonable, and he was surprised that his parents hadn't requested such a thing sooner. He loved his sister, despite how much he secretly _wished_ he had a brother instead, and his parents had a very valid point. It was his job to protect her if something was to happen to them. He was to tell her about them, about how his mother was a brilliant pianist and singer and loving mother, and his father was a private inspector that caught bad people and taught him how to shoot with a handmade catapult for his eighth birthday and made sandcastles with him on the beach every morning before school.

He didn't remember the majority of that day in detail. However, he remembered his parents, their faces, smiles, and everything else about them. He could never forget them, not really.

* * *

The last clear memory was the worst.

There were flashes of people Mick must have talked with over the course of the day, places he visited in Penarth with his family, and activities he probably engaged in. Some were recognizable, such as a neighbor collecting shells to make jewelry for her tourist souvenir shop, or the damp salty smell of the beach after a spring rain and chill that slid through his jacket and the crunch of shells and rocks and sands beneath his sandals as they walked along the shore in search of fossils. Conversations were hard to distinguish, and he only remembered few definitive things. The sound of Jenna's laughter as his father chased after her along the beach, the cautiousness both his parents displayed by not allowing either child out of their sight, and the moments he actually found small fossils along the shore were unmistakable.

He didn't remember how or when Alis Lloyd joined them on the beach. Sometime after lunch at the fish and chips shop on the pier, probably. Or perhaps after their trip to Mister and Misses Prichard's home for an hour, two friends of his parents that frequented the family pub often. Mister Prichard worked in Cardiff with Mick's father, and offered to teach Mick how to play the guitar on the next day out of school. Misses Prichard made chocolate scones and biscuits for the children, and kept them occupied with vivid tales of her days working in the local recently closed theatre as a Shakespearian actress while his parents talked with her husband in the kitchen.

The _how_ or _when_ was irrelevant, really.

Alis arrived with a tattered rucksack over her shoulders and a troubled expression ineffectively masked with a grin at the sight of the children. She had always been more of a tomboy, which was probably one of the reasons why Mick liked her so much, and she never dressed in the typical bright colors like so many other women Mick had seen before. It was always jeans or long shorts, sometimes fraying and peppered with holes in the legs, and tee shirts depicting some band she was fond of or a humorous saying. She always wore boots or sandals, never any makeup save for fingernail polish when working in the pub, and the only jewelry was a handful of bracelets and a locket around her neck given by her grandmother. Instead of wearing her dirty blond down or allowing it to grow long, she kept it short to just above her shoulders with the bangs pinned out of her face with clips decorated with shells found on the beach. When she was on break at the pub and Mick wasn't in school, she played football with him and taught some of the other children on the field behind the pub.

One of the more interesting things about her appearance was her eyes. She called it a _Central Heterochromia, _which she explained was an eye condition where two colors occupied the same iris. In her case, it meant that her blue eyes were speckled with a sort of orange or gold towards the center. It was a joke she used on the children at times, claiming that she was a space alien sent from Mars to collect every fossil she could find in Wales and send them back home. Mick found it funny and played along on most occasions, whereas it actually confused some of the other children.

She had several degrees from Cardiff University in psychology, archeology, and paleontology, but she chose a job as a server at a small family pub in Penarth. Mick found that curious and strange, especially after realizing how much she loved history and fossils. He never questioned why she chose them over a wealthy position at Cardiff University. It bothered him though. She was brilliant even for her age of twenty-nine, taught him everything he knew about dinosaurs and archeology, and she could have changed the way history was perceived if given the time and resources.

He never _really_ wanted to question her because he was afraid of the answer. It was an irrational fear, but he didn't want to tempt fate and make her leave the family.

They spent the rest of the afternoon searching the beach along the pier for fossils. Alis explained a few years ago that the coast was rich with fossils. Currents bring them onto the shore from the depths of the ocean, and it was common to find shells, corals, ammonites, bones, and fish teeth. A good portion of the larger fossils and bones were found in the cliffs or riverbanks inland or construction sites and historical lands. They were historic references of the previous life that once inhabited the area, pieces of history that fascinated children and adults alike.

The first time Mick found a fossil, he was four years old. It was a birthday gift of sorts, an ancient tooth from a prehistoric shark of some kind that his mother tied string around to form a necklace, larger than his thumb and slightly heavy seeing as it still partially mounted in rock. He found it on the shore of the beach near the pier when his parents and Alis decided to introduce him to the prospect of fossil collecting. Admittedly, it was one of his fondest memories. Most of the fossils were small, such as shells and coral, but they did manage to find a skeleton embedded into rock to what Alis deemed was a prehistoric fish of some kind. That was donated to the museum in Cardiff and his family was given credit for the find in the local newspaper.

A basic code of conduct was set when collecting fossils. Not officially, but Alis set the rules rather adamantly and no one questioned it. Small fossils, such as fish teeth or shells or coral could be taken home at the end of the day. Larger fossils, like bones or any actual skeletons that could be used to advance the general understanding of what may have happened to the creatures in the area millions of years ago, were to be donated to the museum in Cardiff for study. In agreement, the local newspaper ran stories when such a find was donated that gave credit publicly to whoever found it.

The rest of the afternoon carried on much too quickly for Mick's liking. He wished the day wouldn't end at one point, that they could stay on the beach, collect shells and fossils, and build sandcastles for the rest of his life. It was selfish, impossible really, but he wanted to delay time as much as possible.

Rain returned just before sunset at eight o'clock that evening. The atmosphere was already damp and more rain only seemed to enhance it. Clouds filed in above accordingly, the air held the unmistakable smell of the approaching storm and a deeper chill that Mick hardly noticed because it was common in spring.

Dinner had taken place at an actual restaurant at seven. Seafood was always a favorite for Mick, and if it were his choice, he could have eaten fish and chips every day of his life. Oddly enough, his mother didn't make a fuss about it as she normally did. Alis attended dinner as well, flirting with the male waiter, who eventually gave her his phone number, and told amusing stories of her days fossil collecting when she was in university.

Afterwards, memory began to dwindle again.

Mick didn't understand why his parents left him and Jenna alone with Alis on the pier. He didn't even remember _when_ they headed back to their home. Certainly there was an explanation, something they said that Mick simply _couldn't_ recall, but he couldn't place what that reason was. Alis kept them on the pier until just before eight twelve. Mick remembered that time specifically because she had a small diver's watch around the wrist vacant of her bracelets that he found fascinating. He questioned her about the time when the shops began to close for the night. Tourists and residents were leaving the pier slowly. Children became restless with the chill and parents started to direct them towards their cars parked just off the pier. High tide had already begun, and the rising seawater was a bit frightening to watch as he leaned over the railing to witness the flickering street lamps reflect off the surface.

It was disconcerting to not remember why his parents left. He couldn't imagine them just telling Alis to stay with him and Jenna while they went home. Even if it was just for a few minutes, considering they only lived ten minutes walking distance from the pier, he should have remembered their words. If they had explained the reasons and Alis agreed, that would have been severely uncharacteristic. His parents hadn't been willing to leave him alone with someone else for over a year and at that moment they decided to break their routine by abandoning him in that manner?

No. Something was terribly wrong. It simply wasn't _right_.

It wasn't until Jenna began to fall asleep on the bench, curled against Alis's front as she clung her warm jacket tighter, that the older woman decided it was time to go home. She gathered Jenna in her arms, adjusting her hold on the three year old to allow her to use her shoulder as a headrest so she had one hand free, then pulled her rucksack filled with the fossils they had collected over the course of the day and slung it over the opposite shoulder. She ordered Mick away from the rails, holding a hand out pointedly for him to hold. He hesitated for a few moments, prepared to argue, but changed his mind at the last second and followed.

"Today's been fun, hasn't it Mickey?" Alis questioned after a few minutes of walking along the sidewalk, swinging his hand slightly for emphasis. She kept a tight grip on his hand, making sure he couldn't get away from her. He stayed to her left and away from the passing cars, people on bicycles, and other pedestrians he briefly recognized.

Mick didn't respond for several moments. He fixated on the sidewalk beneath his feet to stretch the silence, studying the cracks and patches of sand and rain. A shrug slid off his shoulders as a mute answer. Truthfully, he did enjoy himself. For a few short hours he almost forgot about the foreboding intuition. But it returned some time ago, pushing anxiety that made him jumpy and uneasy of the shadows around them, and he wasn't sure how to deal with it.

Alis faltered in her even steps and glanced at him worriedly. That expression was more towards the usual for the past hour. She had been cautious and careful with the children since his parents left the pier, Mick remembered that much, and the way she bided time suggesting she was following some kind of order. The implications as to why didn't make sense to Mick. He didn't know how to question it. Therefore the events carried on without pause, and he hated every moment of it. "You're awfully quiet. Something bothering you?" She asked as she shifted Jenna in her arms again.

"Mum and dad have been acting weird." He mumbled timidly, feeling as though it wasn't a subject he should be discussing with her. It troubled him to the point of frustration, twisted in his subconscious until he thought he was going mad with worry, so perhaps he didn't have a choice.

Alis stopped completely with a heavy sigh for just a few seconds. She gave Mick a curious look that fell into something similar to understanding within moments. It was masked though, as if she was well aware of the appearance and couldn't allow it to linger in front of Mick. "Weird in what way?" She responded in a curious tone Mick had no reason to believe.

"All of you have been, mum and dad and you. It's like all of you are hiding something from us…"

She scoffed at the admission, resuming the pace on the sidewalk and forcing Mick to comply. "Don't be ridiculous. We're not hiding anything." She interrupted. The lie was flawless, perfect in every way and Mick couldn't discern if it was false. He had always known when people lied to him, much like a sixth sense. However, it seemed that Alis knew how to disguise herself well. "Your mum and dad have just been cautious, and I've been helping them keep an eye on you two when they're busy."

"But _why_?" He pressed. "All of the extra rules to keep Jenna and me safe sound like something from one of the novels mum reads to us every night. Like there's some bad man that threatened us and they're trying to keep us safe from him…" Mick rattled for a minute.

When Alis stopped abruptly and turned to him with a wide-eyed expression of pure amazement at the fact that he deduced such a scenario, he mentally kicked himself. Judging by her reaction, he was correct in some fashion. But he couldn't recall anyone that his parents angered recently. There was the usual drunken disorderly his father kicked out of the pub and called the police for every Saturday night. As well as a few other piggish men that ogled his mum and Alis, despite the fact that his mother was clearly happily married with two children. Mick didn't tend to spend his time in the pub when it was full, mostly because he wasn't fond of large crowds and claustrophobic rooms, so it could have been someone else his parents angered when he wasn't around. They wouldn't have told him about it anyways because he was young and they probably didn't want to scare him.

He was prepared for Alis to argue and dispute his assumptions, but she did the exact opposite. Instead, she shifted Jenna in her arms once more and released his hand, then ran the same hand through his messy hair and flattened it affectionately. "You've got your dad's deductive prowess. I guarantee you're going to be someone important to the rest of the world some day. The next _Sherlock Holmes_ of the twenty first century, eh?"

Mick couldn't hide the grin at her words. He pushed her hand away with a smirk and nodded in agreement. There were so many different careers and things he wanted to study when he grew older. Everything from archeology to following his father's footsteps as a private inspector to joining the Royal Marines when he turned eighteen. He loved numbers and science, so the prospect of becoming the man to solve the mystery of how the universe came to be was incredibly tempting.

"So I was right? Someone threatened mum and dad?" He asked as she placed a tight grip on his shoulder.

She hesitated again; glancing at the street on either side to ensure there weren't too many wondering eyes or ears that could eavesdrop. Then gave a short nod and frowned heavily. "It's a very long story, Mickey. I promised your parents I wouldn't tell you about it because it's dangerous and a bit scary."

"But I've seen scary things before. I've read about them in novels and seen them on the news on the telly."

"It's not the same thing." She countered briskly. Obviously she realized that Mick wasn't going to allow the subject to fade without an explanation. She did the only thing she could without breaking the promise to his parents. "Your dad just got on the wrong side of someone at the pub. The person threatened to hurt all of you because of it, and to validate his point, he rammed his car into that school bus you were on last year. He wasn't arrested because he claimed that it was an accident, but your parents don't believe that. He is smart enough to evade the law and that scares all of us. That's why they're being so overprotective."

Mick didn't quite understand. She was lying, he could deduce that easily enough, but there was a level of sincerity that he couldn't disregard. It was a plausible story because the school bus he had been on the year before was hit by another car from the side and the driver was never arrested. In addition, his father had a reputation for kicking people out of the pub if they got too rowdy towards family or staff. But something about it didn't make sense to him.

"That's the honest truth, Mickey. I wouldn't lie to you." She outstretched her hand again in emphasis for him to take it, offering a reassuring smile Mick could not accept. "I promised to take care of you and Jenna, and that's exactly what I'm going to do."

* * *

Home was an outwardly quaint little pub just ten minutes within walking distance of Penarth Pier. It sat near the beach, the ocean to one side while an open empty field behind it, save for a few historic trees providing shade for those who desired to enjoy the weather, and became the center of attention for many to play football or enjoy the sunshine. The building itself was old, crafted in brick and mortar and most likely built around the time of the First World War. Much of the structure had been replaced due to weathering and age, but the original hand carved wooden sign with the name of the pub in Welsh and a carved dragon beneath hung high.

On the inside, it was filled with customers on most nights; the atmosphere was welcoming and the service was wonderful. The second floor was strictly for the Rawson family, and no one dared to climb the stairs upwards unless invited. Despite appearances, the second floor was rather spacious for a family of four.

_Home_ was a distant memory rotted with age and fire.

The fire started at eight thirty-five in the evening. Rather, that was when it became known to the public with one last detrimental explosion.

According to the reports from the arson investigators years later, the fire itself started in the kitchen and dinning room simultaneously. The arsonist entered the home through the back entrance. Katherine and Marc Rawson were found in the first floor dinning room. They were bound and gagged in front of each other in chairs. Autopsy revealed that Marc and Katherine fought with the arsonist, but Marc was shot in the chest with a World War Two British army standard issue revolver to convince Katherine to stop struggling. After they were secured to the chairs in the center of the dinning room, the arsonist used the alcohol in the building as well as several gallons of petrol he brought with him in his stolen and untraceable pick-up parked behind the building to douse everything from the top floor to the bottom. Skin remains showed that Katherine and Marc were doused in petrol last.

They were burned alive, starting with Marc, before the arsonist opened his jacket and ignited a bomb attached to himself in one last act of suicide.

That was the evidence. Mick had read it in the reports after he started working in Interpol. Despite Jenna's warnings, he used his position as an Interpol agent to pull all details pertaining to the murder. It was a conflict of interest, something he _shouldn't _have been reading because the details were so much worse than he remembered or was ever told, and Jenna was right in the end. He didn't like what he read, obviously, but he couldn't stop himself. Reading the evidence reports repeatedly didn't make the facts less painful. If anything, the details made them worse.

The man responsible was never identified. No one knew who he was or why he killed Marc and Katherine Rawson exactly. Scotland Yard ran into brick walls as far as leads. The only witnesses were Mick, Jenna, and Alis. Jenna was too young to possibly remember more than a few brief flashes of the fire. Alis refused to get involved for fear of her safety. Moreover, Mick was too traumatized and confused by the shock and head injury to remember more than a few crucial scenes.

He remembered approaching the home with Jenna and Alis. Jenna was practically hanging off the older woman in exhaustion, her small arms wrapped around her neck and her head resting on her shoulder as she dozed. Alis held Mick's hand as they traversed the street towards the pub, tightening her grip whenever a car or pedestrian passed them. Mick was just eager to go home to his parents.

The ever-present foreboding intensified almost painfully as the home came into view. It was worse than anything he had ever felt before, as if it were an actual stabbing pain of raw terror in his chest than a severe nagging in the back of his subconscious. He knew what it was, although he didn't understand _how_ exactly he knew, but he didn't act upon it immediately.

He didn't have to.

Streetlights were out within a one-block perimeter of the home. Only the shrouded moon and stars above mingling with the passing car headlights provided usable light to see where they were going. They didn't necessarily need them because Mick knew the route like the back of his hand. There was an ominous feel to the atmosphere, bitterly chilly with the drizzle of evening spring rain, yet thick with something Mick couldn't identify. It heightened his attentiveness to the world around him, made him notice every detail his eyes could define in hopes to find a cause for the suffocating tension.

Few people seemed to take notice to the lack of lighting. The traffic light down the street still worked, but the few surrounding homes and businesses showed no signs of power. There were no lights portraying a silhouette through curtained windows, no people wondering about in hopes to find the reason why they couldn't turn on the lights. Lack of police on scene suggested they weren't necessary, and it was probably something wrong with a power line that the power company had yet to send someone out to fix it. Meaning it had only been dark for a few minutes, possibly just after sundown minutes before.

Likewise, the pub was lightless as well. Curtains were drawn shut, the lamps mounted to the side of the building near the entrance unlit, and there were no signs of one of his parents with a candle in hand similar to a few glimpses of neighbors across the street he noticed. They had candles in the dinning room on a shelf near the stage, although they were decorative, and there was no reason why his mum or dad shouldn't have been lighting a few. They had done it before whenever a lightening storm came through the town.

Alis must have noticed the change too. Her grip on Mick's hand tightened until the point of pain, her stance impossibly rigid as she stared at the pub with a grim expression Mick had never seen before. She mumbled something he couldn't translate in Welsh, most likely a curse given her tone, and quickly roused Jenna from her slumber. "Michael, you need to take Jenna to the neighbor just down the block. Misses O'Malley, you remember her from your birthday party a few weeks ago, right?" She stated uncharacteristically sternly as she placed a still sleepy Jenna on the sidewalk and released Mick's hand. Only on rare occasions did she refer to Mick by his birth name. Those times always followed some kind of trouble.

Jenna wavered in her daze, rubbing her eyes and yawning. She steadied when Mick clasped her hand, sleep wearing thin enough for her to look at her brother and Alis in confusion.

Misses O'Malley was an elderly woman that volunteered at the local church every weekend. She originated from Southern Ireland during the 1940s, but moved to Penarth after her husband died in the early 1970s. Mick's mother was good friends with the older woman, and they tended to host parties at the local church together for the holidays. Sometimes she watched over the young children in the field behind the pub to ensure they were safe. Other times she volunteered at the primary school to help children who were falling behind in the main academic subjects. Mick couldn't be sure because she never mentioned it, but he assumed she had children at one point. She was kind and generous, similar to Mick's own grandmothers that lived in North Wales and London and he wasn't able to visit as often as he wished. Therefore, she was trustworthy.

That didn't necessarily mean Mick understood why he should have taken his toddler sister to her house when something was clearly wrong with his own.

"Michael!" Alis hissed in an impatient whisper, dropping to crouch on her heels with her rucksack thrown on the ground in front of her. She started to unzip it hastily, scrambling through the contents in search of something. "We don't have time for this. Take your sister to Misses O'Malley's place down the street now. Stay there until I or one of your parents finds you."

It was an order Mick couldn't obey. Not because he wanted to be obstinate or even because Alis had never sounded so intimidating towards him before. No, the real reason stemmed from the fact that something was terribly wrong with the entire scene. He couldn't simply _leave_, even if that meant placing himself and Jenna in danger.

Jenna wrapped her fingers around Mick's hand voluntarily as she asked in a small tone, "But mummy and daddy?"

Alis stilled her hasty movements, wrapping her around something unseen in the rucksack, and shook her head adamantly. "I don't know. Just go with your brother. Watch out for each other." Another brief pause drew her eyes back to Mick, bearing into his own in determination. "Don't let go of her hand. Whatever happens, don't you ever let go." The words lingered for a moment, sincere and demanding in a way Mick couldn't refuse.

Then they were drowned by a bloodcurdling scream slicing through the night, echoing in every crevice of the world around them, obscuring every other rational thought until it became the only thing that mattered in life. It rang in his ears like white noise, repeated in a never-ending loop that seemed to make his ears ache, and he knew in an instant who caused it.

His mother. Katherine Rawson. Mick could recognize her voice anywhere at any given time. She sang to him at least once a day for eight years, read to him every night regardless of how busy she was, and talked to him about anything and everything when his father was working in Cardiff. Mick _knew_ her voice because it was unmistakable. It was embedded in memory like the daily functions of walking or talking.

Never before had he heard her scream.

Mick didn't know he was moving towards the home less than fifteen feet away until Alis shouted at him to stop. He sidestepped her outstretched arms, unwilling to allow her to stop him, and took off in a desperate sprint towards the entrance. It didn't matter that Alis screamed at him to stop, that the older woman was a single step behind him and within seconds of snatching him by the back of his jacket. All that matter was his parents.

They were still in the building. His mother's scream came through a partially open window on the second floor, _his_ bedroom window that he tended to leave open during the spring and summer months, which meant she was still inside somewhere. Whether his father was with her wasn't a concern at that moment. He didn't hear his father scream in absolute terror, although he was certain the older man was inside the building as well.

The closer he drew to home, the more he realized that the air itself had changed. It didn't smell of seawater, fish, and sand, familiar and comforting for as long as he could possibly remember. The new stench was disgustingly pungent, nothing like he had ever smelled before but unmistakable

Petrol and burning flesh.

Mick wasn't fast enough. He couldn't close the distance in time and he couldn't save his parents from the explosion or fire. No matter how hard he pushed his legs to go faster, ignoring the instinct to run and fear ripping at his nerves like savage wolves, he simply was not _fast_ enough.

It was too late to save them anyways. Smoke billowed out of the chimney and through the open second story bedroom window, encasing the atmosphere in a thick and suffocating stench of burning petrol and alcohol. Fire followed suit to lap at the curtains, dancing the darkness as if it wanted attention. A brief glimpse of the interior showed that the rest of the home was ablaze as well, and entering at that point would have been suicide. The smoke was too thick, the fire was too hot, and Mick was running out of options.

Alis was screaming, pleading, for him to stop. She groped for his jacket but he avoided with ease. Jenna was left trailing behind them in hopes to catch up. People were starting to take notice. Cars slowed drastically as drivers peeked out to see what was happening; few even parked on the side of the street and jumped out to watch in morbid curiosity. Pedestrians stalled to stare in curiosity for a moment, only to realize what was happening a second later and mumble amongst themselves in shock and horror. A few men Mick recognized as regulars at the pub rushed towards the building in hopes to find a way inside, and hopefully save his parents, but they were halted before any could get within five feet of the building.

Mick was only eight feet from the entrance when the building exploded around him. Oddly enough, the memory was quite vivid.

First came fire and an unseen force. The force of the explosion threw him and Alis backwards and towards a parked car as if they were weightless. Those seconds of less gravity, of flying through the air as if someone had picked them up and thrown them with no effort at all, was terrifying. A ringing followed in his ears as his eardrums burst, leaking blood down the skin of his ear painfully. Fire occupied space a moment later, catching on his clothes to burn his skin and trembling before him like some sick form of art. Glass rained down in painful shards, scattered about the ground and people and cars alike.

They landed against the car with a gasp and cry of shock and pain. For Mick, the world faded into a haze of muddled voices and deafening sirens and impossible scenes. Fixating on anything was difficult because nothing came into focus. He felt numb and disconnected, like some disgusting nightmare was plaguing him rather than reality. The warmth running down the back of his neck and into his jacket coincided with the moment his head connected with the car. He couldn't necessarily care that a small portion of his jacket sleeve burned in rhythm with the fire before him, that the flame ripped at the fabric until it found skin and began to devour it.

Nothing made sense. He couldn't think, couldn't move or talk or bother to put out the fire eating at his own flesh. All he could see was the fire cascading around the building. The fire that stole his parents, that destroyed every ounce of innocence he had gathered since birth, was mesmerizing. Flames were elegant in their own sense. One after the other, they danced in cycles of brilliant reds and yellows, blinding and beautiful amongst themselves.

He tried to look away and scream or cry, but he just _couldn't_. Nor could he accept that his parents were actually dead. They couldn't have been. Just hours before they were collecting small fossils on the beach near the pier. Hours ago, they were enjoying the sand and ocean as a family. They could not just _die like that._

Yet the evidence was undeniable. Logically, there was no possible way they could have survived. The explosion collapsed the roof and the second floor downwards. Even if they hadn't been injured, bound, and set ablaze, they would not have made it out of the building before it collapsed with the explosion.

The indisputable, numbing fact remained.

Marc and Katherine Rawson were murdered in cold blood by an arsonist with a grudge against the family, and their children were led to watch it happen.

At the end of it all, when he spent the rest of his youth in foster homes scattered across London and his adult life searching for answers, there was no clear reason for _why._ Nevertheless, Mick was going to spend the rest of his days searching for an explanation that simply didn't exist. At least, not in the context he had ever imagined.

* * *

Note- Ta-da! People! I'm back! I know it has been some time since I've posted anything. Working on three separate projects at once tends to eat up time faster than anticipated.  
So, there's no much I can say about this without spoilers. This is kind of filling in the gaps and adding another layer of mystery to things. It's incredibly important in the main story arc, and I plan to expand on it later. I will say that Alis Lloyd is a key piece to things, and she comes into play later too. This also explains Mick's hatred of fire and arsonists as more of an unspoken fear. Which, I think, is really true to his personality.  
I think that's all for now. The next chapter to One-Eighty By Summer will be posted as soon as it's finished. You know what to do, right? Reviews are loved and appreciated. A huge thanks to those who have read, reviewed, and subscribed to my work so far!


	13. The Mistake You Can't Live Without 1

Intermission

The Mistake You Can't Live Without

Summery- With an IQ of well above one hundred and eighty, Mick Rawson was considered a genius. Genius hadn't always served him well when the subject came to social skills.

Rated teen for themes. Nothing particularly explicit. The only pairings, even in the slightest, are Mick and Gina. There are plenty of spoilers for my previous works. You might want to read those if you haven't yet. No one beta reads my work, although I wouldn't refuse, so any grammar and spelling mistakes are my own. Please don't verbally kill me for a typo. Sadly I do not own anything involving Criminal Minds Suspect Behavior. The only things I can claim are my characters, story lines, and imagination.

Now, to the story!

* * *

'_The difference between genius and stupidity is that genius has its limits.' - Albert Einstein_

* * *

Part 1

With an IQ of well above one hundred and eighty, Mick Rawson was considered a genius.

As a child, genius was a blessing and a curse.

That was never the case with his parents.

His mother understood him in a manner he longed for when he grew older. She could read the expression on his face like an open book, and always knew how to treat him when his mind wondered. He was mature for his age and she treated him as such. Yet, at the same time, she kept the fact of his true age in mind. She was, for the first eight years of his life, the only person in the world who knew how to deal with him when his impulses of cleanliness and curiosity drew him into potential trouble.

His father taught him as much as he possibly could between his second job in Cardiff. He taught Mick how to shoot with a handmade catapult, and encouraged Mick despite his mother's worries when he learned that Mick had a raw talent for hand-eye coordination. They played football together at times and Mick was quite skilled with that as well. And every morning before school and work, his father spent between thirty minutes to an hour on the beach with him to make sandcastles. When it was raining and cold and they couldn't justify spending time on the beach, his father took turns with his mother and read old classics to him to give his mind something clear to ponder for the day.

They _knew_ him and he didn't even have to explain himself.

When he couldn't sleep, his mother sang or read to him.

When he had a nightmare at the age of five that sent him out of his room in tears, they allowed him to sleep in their bed between them.

When his baby sister ripped his prized hand sown dragon he had since birth, and he was left in a muddled mix of rage and despair as he held it up to his mother and asked her to fix it with large pleading eyes, his mother patched it as good as new without a single second thought.

When he scraped his knee while playing football, his father carried him home and patched it with a dinosaur bandage and promise to buy him a bag of his favorite sweets next time he was in town just to bring a smile to his face again.

When a school bully shoved him to the ground on the football field behind the pub/home, his father scolded the other boy until he ran away like a kicked puppy with his tail between his legs.

When he asked his parents for a baby brother, they gave him a baby sister instead. For a while, he wasn't very appreciative. Jenna was the exact opposite to him and she drove him mad at times. Especially in her infancy when she spit on him and played with her food and made disgusting smells and gnawed on his dragon, which she _somehow _always managed to find in the lounge where he left it. But he loved her because she was family, because she had potential if she put her mind to it just as he did.

Everything they did, the advanced classes and the seemingly ridiculous safety measures and even having another child, was done with him in mind. They knew he was exceptionally brilliant and the classes were meant to feed that brilliance. Otherwise, without the challenge, he would have become lazy, and that would have been truly tragic. The safety measures were thought to be unnecessary.

That is, until the night his parents were killed by an arsonist with some kind of grudge against the family.

His parents understood when no one else could. Never had he found anyone else like them in the sense that they could read him in the same manner. And to be quite honest, he didn't believe he ever would.

* * *

In school, before the age of seventeen, Mick had been studying in advanced classes since he was about six years old.

He loved complex mathematics and calculus, excelled at it above his schoolmates in an impressive show of understanding for his age, because the numbers were reliable and sensible. Something about the numbers and patterns _clicked_ in his mind and he couldn't exactly explain why. Chemistry was similar to mathematics in the notion that he found them to be just another set of equations. Every chemical had a number and only certain numbers could react together without creating disaster. Although, sometimes he used that to his own advantage against the bullies who threatened him.

Psychology was more for his benefit and survival than anything else. He used it against the bullies who stole from him, used it against those who stripped him of his clothes on very few occasions and shoved him in one of the football lockers for hours at a time before someone found him. Against the foster parents, before the O'Connell family saved him, who threatened to hurt him if he didn't obey and deprived him of food or a decent bed if he opened his mouth against them. He even used it against his brother at times when he wanted to run away from the O'Connell home again.

Mick could never understand why Liam had been so keen to run again after the O'Connell's. They were good people, safe people, and had treated them as their own children since the first day of the adoption. After a while, Mick began to profile that it was a defensive measure Liam subconsciously created during the years on the streets. Of course, he never dared to admit that aloud.

Literature and theatre and history were pure entertainment because it reminded him of home. His literature teacher reenacted the plays and stories as best he could and it was quite convincing. But it was no match for his grandmother or mother's stories he was told as a child. Still, Mick memorized as many stories and plays discussed as he could, and even watched every play in the school theatre. Not simply because of Isabella Beaumont, though she was certainly worth watching, but because he found them _interesting. _

And interesting was something he could never refuse.

He never went to university. The scholarships to Oxford and Cambridge were voided when he attempted to kill a previous foster parent. In his defense, the bastard deserved it for what he did to Isabella Beaumont. He still had the letters sent to him though. They were kept safe in a scrapbook Jenna and Cassie made shortly after he was accepted. That scrapbook depicted his entire life with his foster family, Liam and Cassie included, and he gladly brought it to the States with him because it made him feel better after bad cases. It was a piece of home, of life before everything went to hell, and it became the only thing left when everyone else abandoned him.

It wasn't his idea to accept the deal over the rest of his life in prison. He didn't want either options, and he was in the process of learning every law book he could get his hands on in hopes to find a loophole to jump through when his foster parents agreed for him. Because he was under the age of eighteen and still considered a minor, they were legally allowed to sign on his behalf if they believed it was in his best interest. They excused the betrayal as _love. _They excused the fact that he and Liam were being sent to Sandhurst against his will because they _loved _him as their own son. Liam only agreed to enroll with him to keep him safe as he had always done.

But in the end, when they came home bloodied and beaten and broken, that was _their _mistake.

He was never _meant _to be a soldier. Liam had told him that a week after they enrolled in Sandhurst and at the time Mick didn't understand what he meant. After more than six years on a battle ground in the desert, witnessing his friends and teammates get slaughtered or fall to pieces in front of him, and enduring torture that almost killed him, he realized that Liam had been right from the start.

Mick was never meant to be a soldier. He was a genius, with a love for numbers and a hidden desire to be someone important someday. Not a solider or a killer. But a brilliant young soul who could have done anything with his life.

However, that didn't stop him from becoming the best sniper the British Army had seen since World War Two.

* * *

Mick was a genius.

He could profile serial killers with impressive accuracy based on little information, could calculate trajectories and formulas thirty to fifty variables long in silence in under ninety seconds, could even plan a psychological manipulation to work in his favor up to thirty steps ahead.

However, the one thing he could never truly grasp in any psychological aspect was himself.

It was ironic, really, because he had spent years perfecting his skills in psychology. He wasn't nearly as brilliant at the game as Sam Cooper, but he was trying. Cooper had years of experience over his head anyways. Still, Mick thought he was exceptional at psychology. There had been a few mistakes in the past that always came back to bite him in the ass. Heaven knew he hated those incidents because it painted him as incompetent at times. But Mick was talented in the notion that he saw what others didn't, and that worked wonders with psychology.

So how could he _not _understand himself?

It verged on ridiculous, not being able to profile himself, and Mick only had excuses. Perhaps it was subconscious and defensive. Or maybe he just wasn't skilled enough to do so. Admittedly, the last option stung like a bee to his pride.

Mick couldn't analyze himself for reasons he didn't understand. That didn't make him less of a man or a profiler. It simply meant that he, in spite of his actions and claims and outward appearances, was just as human as anyone else. And sometimes he needed someone to show him that genius didn't necessarily mean anything in the scope of relationships.

* * *

Genius didn't help his relationship with teammates and friends.

Mick understood that his outlook on the world around him was unusual. He knew the majority of the population didn't see the world as intricate pieces to a whole, as colors and details and pieces in such a vibrant display that tried to steal his attention with every new subject presented before him. The world was captivating and amazing at its best. Yet, it could be disgusting and _wrong _and even foul at its worst. Everything happened for a reason. Coincidence was an excuse for most to avoid searching for such reasons.

Because of the acute attention to detail, Mick spent the majority of his youth ridiculed and bullied. People didn't _understand_ what it felt like to notice everything, to see the minorities and differences with such maddening perceptiveness. As usual, people didn't often respect what they didn't understand.

During his days in school, it was pure hell. Schoolmates mocked him, humiliated him, just to see the reaction on his face when he realized that they weren't trying to be kind to him at all. When the teachers became angry because he fixed their grammar mistakes on the tests he was given and pointed which of the questions were incorrect because technically they had worded them wrong, they tried to flunk him out of the classes.

It wasn't until Liam began to stand up for him a few months after they had met that things started to turn around. Sure, he was still ridiculed by bullies and mocked by teachers. People in general thought of him as the socially weird little Welsh boy in over his head and lost in the relentless foster system of London. He wasn't liked by the girls he dated for a day or so at a time, and most only agreed to date him because they either thought he was cute or felt some form of pity towards him or were dared by a friend.

Liam Holmes only understood the transparencies. He had seen how the world treated Mick in regards to his genius, had witnessed those who retaliated with jealousy and violence, had seen a young lost boy in distress and agony in a world he didn't understand. Liam understood after just six months. Perhaps there was sympathy in the midst of his decision to protect Mick and Jenna, to join them on the streets as their protector and mentor and family. But the _why_ never really mattered. The only thing Liam ever asked of them in return was _family_. He just wanted some place to go at night, someone to notice him and respect him as any family should, and someone to make sure he didn't die alone.

That was all any of them wanted.

Mick was forever grateful for Liam's decision. He knew that if Liam hadn't been there to save them, to mentor Mick on the finer points of life, and protect him from the bad homes and bullies as well as himself, he would have turned into a _very_ different person. Life could have been worse. He could have had no one else to talk with who understood even a portion of how his mind ailed him. There could have been _nothing _meaningful in life.

Liam gave Mick purpose. He gave him friendship and understanding, a reason to live and fight for what he believed to be true in the world. The Scotsman saved his life in Iraq, brought him back to camp and safety after he was shot in the leg and almost bled to death, and risked everything by forcing his way out of an underground bunker full of enemy combatants after thirty days of severe torture just to carry him miles into the desert until rescue found them. Liam was hope for Mick, something Mick hadn't believed since the death of his parents. Nothing was ever going to change that, no matter how much his genius sabotaged his social skills.

* * *

Liam didn't last forever.

The night Mick had heard Liam shoot himself over the phone, something mentally snapped.

Unfortunately he recalled the events with stunning detail. It was part of his damned photographic memory. He hardly forgot anything interesting or intriguing. Whether it was good or bad, he _never_ forgot the important unless an outward source forced the memory away. _Outward forces _such as a physical injury to the head or even a mental breakdown pushed the memories away as a method of protection. It only had one advantage, and that was the fact that he didn't live his life with the memory of the dead on the surface.

Of course, that also meant that the memories were paralyzing during the times his mind actually slowed enough for his body to rest.

Liam had tried to kill himself after his pregnant fiancé, Fiona, left him. She was the love of his life, cherished as a queen and adored with every ounce of his soul. But she gave him a choice and he ruined it. They could have been a family, with a child and a house and a wife that loved him, and Mick could have been the uncle that spoiled the child rotten and the best man to their wedding and repaid every life saving thing Liam had ever done for him.

But Mick watched him destroy himself with heroin.

Mick had been the last person he talked to before he put the tip of a gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

And Mick fell apart after the doctors said that Liam was virtually gone, that no amount of medicine and medical procedures was going to fix the fact that Liam was severely brain damaged and catatonic.

Liam was _gone_, and Mick blamed himself like everyone else. Teammates, friends, family, all of them blamed him for Liam's demise. They blamed _him _for what happened in Iraq, and despite how much he apologized from the bottom of his heart, he couldn't argue with them. So Mick punished himself accordingly because no one else would.

The psychologist labeled Mick's response to the news as a _Clinical Nervous and Mental Breakdown. _Strangely enough, Mick expected such a diagnosis seeing as his mind had a tendency to shut down and protect itself with some form of temporary catatonia when something horrifically traumatic happened.

She pushed for mandatory treatment after he was rushed into Emergency. Lillian had caught him trying to slit his wrists in his bedroom a month after Liam shot himself, using his combat knife to dig into skin until the familiar pain became consuming and numbing again. He was treated for the wound on his left wrist, as well as severe Post Traumatic Stress Disorder and depression. At the time he was forcefully committed to a psych hold for two weeks, tested for every mental disorder they could think of including schizophrenia, and had to lie with every ounce of his being just to be released under the watch of his foster family pending review by the British SAS.

Apparently they were required to reconsider his future involvement as their best sniper because he admitted to attempting suicide.

Liam abandoned him just like everyone always did.

Liam abandoned him because he _hated _what Mick had done to him. Honestly, Mick hated himself just as well.

Had it not been for Sam Cooper, he would have succeeded in killing himself as punishment.

* * *

Sam Cooper couldn't _replace_ Liam. He was a good man, one of the very few people Mick had ever met that truly gave a damn about people, and somehow Mick trusted him. But he couldn't _replace_ his brother.

Trust had always been a tedious subject for Mick. It was never something he gave away freely to anyone. Trust had to be earned with time and selflessness. Realistically, he knew he developed that mentality from Liam. It kept him safe over the years though. Maybe it wasn't the best mentality to formulate lasting friendships on. After all, trust was a vital key to any relationship, whether it was friendship or something else entirely.

Still, it took quite a long time for Mick to _trust_ Cooper to even a portion as he did Liam.

Understandably so, Cooper was smarter than Liam. He could formulate psychological outcomes in his favor before Mick could even realize what the hell he was doing. Cooper could play him on a psychological level that Mick couldn't even compete with. The older man did have more than ten years of experience and skill in comparison to Mick. And he wasn't entirely shy to use such skills to gain the perfect end result.

Cooper gave Mick a run for his money, sort to speak. He became a teacher, another mentor, towards Mick's skills in psychology. Cooper taught him some of the best tricks to manipulate people he had ever seen, and it was quite useful during his time in Interpol. He understood how Mick saw the world _better _than Liam ever had. For the first time in Mick's life, he felt as though he found someone who _truly _understood what it was like to see everything in a different light.

However, that didn't mean Sam Cooper could replace Liam Holmes.

Cooper did save his life, and that did count for an awful lot in the form of trust.

True, Cooper brought him home from Iraq in 2004 after thirty days of hell. Cooper found the traitor who sold him and his team to an extremist group, although Mick had been the one to empty an entire gun clip into her chest during confrontation. And Cooper returned to London after Liam's first heroin overdose in October that year and didn't leave until Mick was reinstated into the British SAS in late spring of the next year. He had been there when Mick had his breakdown; he had the one to defend him against the doctors that wanted to institutionalize him and those who blamed him for everything.

Cooper saved his life by caring when no one else seemed to, and Mick had to admit that had meant more to him than anything else anyone had ever done for him.

* * *

The missions were _different. _

Before the incident in Iraq, Mick had never paused before pulling the trigger on his rifle. He never allowed morality to take hold of what he was doing, and he never felt remorse for those he was ordered to kill. It wasn't a choice he made willingly. Somehow he had become hardened through the years, and while he wasn't so far gone as to be labeled a sociopath like so many others he had seen, he simply found it difficult to express remorse and empathy.

It was a job and he was the best in the field. They weren't _people _he shot from a hidden perch in the distance; they were just another number to add to his impressive and disturbing reputation.

That numbed outlook changed after he met Cooper, after he watched his world crumble around him and the only constant in his life became a man he grew to respect as a father figure and friend. He hesitated with every kill, hidden in his perch as he stared down the scope of his rifle at his target, for less than a second. Just long enough for him to mentally catalog the kill, to memorize what the unfortunate soul looked like before he pulled the trigger. Afterwards, the kill weighted on his soul and deprived him of sleep, and for the longest time he found it impossible to relax. Sometimes he went days with only an hour of sleep at a time because he didn't want to relive the moments. Other times, the only way to ease his anxiety was to run.

The change started when Cooper volunteered his consultant services to the British Army as a professional profiler to be used against the enemy Taliban. He was a founding father in modern profiling techniques, one of the small few scattered across the world, and his assessments were very rarely ever wrong. Mick had been told the basics one night over dinner in the mess hall, when they were discussing Mick are waiting admittance into Interpol in summer of 2005. It wasn't boasting, Cooper proclaimed rather adamantly. He was simply reassuring Mick that he was one of the best profilers in the world, and the British Army was lucky to have his temporary services.

The FBI let him go after he returned to the States with no evidence or new leads supporting the Rais case, which was the biggest case he had ever worked on, so he didn't have anywhere else to go either.

Their missions together were divided by his time in Interpol. Consequently, the months he was out of service due to an injury didn't mean they could relax. Cooper became a secret weapon for Mick to use on cases, just as he was to the British SAS. During his months of medical leave, they worked international serial murder cases. When Mick became stuck on a particularly difficult case, Cooper was called to ask for his opinion.

Mick didn't agree to that arrangement until after a mission went south in the summer of 2006.

In retrospect, the mission itself went smoothly. The joint American-British raid in the north eastern mountains of Afghanistan went without a hitch. Their team of five stealthily subdued the insurgence group by whatever means of force necessary, as ordered, and there was no immediate cost of life towards them or the American SEAL team accompanying them for support. Weapons and bombs were confiscated and awaiting transport back to base. The dead were counted and confirmed with the photos they had been given during the intelligence briefing.

What Mick didn't count on, and none of them actually knew existed because it seemed to be a crucial piece of information their informant missed, was a scared ten year old boy hiding in the shadows of the cave.

Mick had the unfortunate and painful task of meeting him as he swept the back of the cave with a teammate. They had already cleared that area once, but his subconscious was telling him that someone else was in the vicinity. That there was still a danger around the corner, hidden in the shadows cast by their torches mounted against their weapons and embedded into the small alcoves of rock. The insurgents had strung electric lanterns along the ceiling that were powered by a generator. Unfortunately, that generator was disabled when a stray spray of bullets lodged themselves into the electronics.

The butt end of an automatic weapon was smashed into his face as he rounded a corner, and Mick staggered backwards instinctively as the pain temporarily blinded him. It wasn't a ridiculous instinct of danger brought by his PTSD. The dark red blood gushing from his freshly broken nose proved as much. One hand groped on its own accord for a nearby surface to stabilize himself upon impact, while the other abandoned his weapon clasped against his vest and cupped around his nose in instinctual disbelief and shock. He cursed under his breath as the blood filled his hand and flowed between his fingers, and he took those two seconds to register just what the hell was happening.

In front of him, his teammate readied his weapon to shoot the boy standing paralyzed before them. Mick had only worked with the man twice, and he knew something was a bit odd about him from the start. It wasn't something he could easily describe, even to Cooper, but something about his posture reeked of anger and revenge and apathy. Not because of what the boy had just done to Mick, but because the boy was obviously one of the insurgent's son.

He was going to kill that boy. A boy who stared at them with large mortified blue eyes, too thin in his shaggy clothing with his dark hair sticking in whichever direction, his small bare hands and feet bloodied and scarred from the minutes he had crawled into a tight alcove for cover. A boy who had only followed his father because he had no where else to go, and probably didn't even know _how _to kill someone with the weapon he smashed into Mick's face.

An innocent boy in over head.

Mick regained his footing just as his teammate fired his weapon. He couldn't allow him to kill an innocent child, no matter what that child may have gotten himself into. So he jumped in front of the bullet just as it was fired, calculating momentum and speed and angle of trajectory within a fractured second. He twisted in his step to ensure that the bullet hit him and not the child, using his larger size to mask the child from any potential danger without a second thought.

Why was he protecting a random child with obvious ties to the enemy? Mick had no easy explanation. It felt like the right thing to do, like he would have been at fault if he allowed his teammate to hurt him, like it was necessary for reasons he didn't know.

The bullet hit Mick just as he turned on his feet. He felt it collide with his body, felt the blinding pain in his side and chest that stole his breath, felt his legs give out beneath him as he fell to the warm rocky ground with an audible cry that he was almost ashamed of. The bullet didn't hit his vest though. It hit _him. _

It left a jagged hole in his lower right side, just below the ribcage where the front and back of his vest were laced together. His fingers pressed between the laces, finding the hot seeping hole through his uniform as a moan worked its way up from the back of his throat. It was difficult to breath, and he could swear that he felt the bullet still lodged into his flesh with every searing breath he took. Consciousness was becoming a lost cause as blood sifted between his fingers at an alarming rate and the pain consumed any logical thoughts his brain tried to formulate.

When he blinked sluggishly, his eyes squinted at a light burning into his pupils. Then there were two strong hands cutting his vest open from the laces with a knife, and a pressure bandage pushed against the wound as his hands were shoved away with enough force to gray the edges of his vision. His teammate was hovering over him, hands clamped over the bandage as he called for help from his other teammates in the cave. He was furious, Mick could tell moments before consciousness slipped away, and not because he had shot a teammate.

Because the child had escaped in the chaos and distraction.

Because Mick had just saved an innocent boy from slaughter without a definable reason.

* * *

"For someone with a genius IQ such as yourself, that was awfully stupid."

Normally, Mick would have found that statement offensive. He would have argued with Cooper, or anyone else for that matter, that he wasn't _stupid_. Geniuses couldn't be _stupid_, he reasoned when he was a teenager. Therefore he was never _stupid. _Impulsive. Obsessive. Complicated. Arrogant to a fault. Ridiculous at times. Obnoxious at others. But never _stupid_.

It must have been the heavy dose of morphine the good doctor gave him after surgery.

Mick was perceptive by nature. But in those few minutes of morphine induced haze, when his mind was muddled and virtually pickled after two hours of extensive surgery to repair the damage done by the bullet lodged through his side, perceptiveness seemed like a ridiculous substitute for conversation. He couldn't determine if Cooper was trying to be funny or serious. Nor could he understand why there seemed to be two Sam Coopers beside the uncomfortable hospital bed.

He was in the base hospital. That much was understandable given the bland attire to the recovery ward and the monitoring equipment taped against his bare chest. However, it took a few moments after he awoke to realize why he was there exactly. The recovery ward wasn't empty. Others were tucked neatly in beds lined feet apart. Some were closed to prying eyes with drawn curtains. Even a few nurses and staff alternated between patients with clipboards and pens in their arms as they took notes to their conditions.

The bed was too warm and uncomfortable. Tape against his chest pulled at the hair whenever he moved. A bandaged splint was used to set his broken nose, and the bandages wrapped around the wound in his side itched terribly. Thankfully the drugs and fluids distributed by the needle taped into the back of his hand dulled his senses, and the pain was nothing more than a fading ache barely registered. It was only a matter of time before sleep won over his desire to talk with Cooper.

So Mick turned to the older man perched in a chair beside him lazily, blinking sluggishly in hopes to focus on the more solid figure. He tried to argue, to explain that Cooper had been wrong and his actions were justifiable. Saving that boy in the cave from his teammate had gotten him shot by friendly fire. But the boy was innocent. He didn't deserve to be killed. Mick, no matter how hard he tried to formulate the words to explain himself, couldn't _say _anything. His tongue was too heavy and his mouth felt as though he had been chewing on cotton balls. Undoubtedly that was caused by the anesthesia he had been given during the surgery. All he could do was knit his brow and stare at the other man intently.

Cooper smirked at the younger man and shook his head, as if preparing to scold him for his actions, before leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. "I never said _you _were stupid. I meant your _actions _were stupid. But I understand why you did it." He clarified, pausing for just a moment to retrieve a bottle of fresh water from the small table beside the head of the bed. Once it was uncapped, he carefully eased it to his lips and ordered him to sip it slowly. "Your teammate is off duty pending review, and there's a good possibility he'll get a court marshal for his mouth because he lied when asked what happened. The boy was found a few minutes after you were shot. He was arrested with the others, and taken back to camp until the proper authorities could get their hands on him. I doubt he'll be charged like the others given his innocence and age. But he will be monitored closely for the next several years as a precaution."

The elder man pulled the bottle away after a few sips and capped it again. He set it back on the table and retrieved his wallet from his back pocket, flicking it open to pull a small folded piece of yellowing paper from the interior. Mick recognized it as a page from one of Cooper's many journals he was always scribbling in. "He did ask if you were going to be alright and he wanted to apologize for breaking your nose. Apparently he heard the commotion and got scared. When he hit you with the gun, it was more instinctual and defensive than anything else. He drew this to express how sorry he was, and to thank you for saving his life."

Mick struggled to wrap his fingers around the paper. His limbs were heavy, movements uncoordinated, and the oxygen sensor clipped to his middle finger restricted how far he could move the limb. Cooper unfolded the page for him and slipped it in front of him, holding it in place as a sloppy grin crossed the sniper's face. The water had helped to regain his voice, but his accent was thicker than normal and his tongue still refused to move more than necessary.

It was times like this when Mick would have gladly dealt with the pain of post-surgery rather than the drugs.

The black pen ink scribbles of a small stick-figure boy and what looked to be a dog stood in the foreground of a square mud building. Structure suggested that it was considered home for the boy, and the dog was obviously his best friend. There were no signs of a mother or other siblings, so he lived alone with his father in a small village before his father joined the group they had arrested. Above the drawing, a sincere apology and thanks were written in choppy English lettering, as if he had asked Cooper how to write it and Cooper printed it on another page for him to copy.

Mick finally wrapped his fingers around one corner, drawing it closer to grin. Truthfully, the page itself didn't mean anything. It wasn't a factor of how _cute _it may have been that tugged at his heart, but how much sincerity the boy had put into every line. A child had never thanked him for his actions before, and he had to admit that it felt humbling.

"That's new." His mumbled response was slurred heavily, and he almost didn't recognize the tone of his own voice. It was the only reply that came to mind, really.

Cooper sat back in his chair, folding his arms over his chest, and nodded towards the picture expectantly. "From what I heard, you saved that boy's life by throwing yourself in front of the bullet. While I do think that wasn't your smartest idea because you ended up taking a bullet that could have killed you if it had been just an inch higher, your selflessness is admirable and impressive. Just a few years ago, I doubt you would have done something like that. It's good to see that some of the psychological moralities I've been preaching have sunken in."

Moralities.

Mick hadn't considered such a word in some time. Morality was always a difficult subject during his youth. After the incident in Iraq, and witnessing the world blame him for everything, his moral outlook changed as well. He did feel remorse for those he did kill. There was always a pause before he killed them. And he did find himself sympathetic to those who deserved it, such as the boy he saved. Cooper was correct. Years ago, he wouldn't have cared enough to save that boy or to feel anything towards the picture drawn for him.

Things change. _He _changed for the better, in spite of what everyone else claimed.

"Now, I've got to go talk to command about the transport that's sending you home for a month of recovery time." Cooper stated as he rose from his seat. "I'll be back in a few hours. In the meantime, you should rest." He continued, plucking the photo from his hands and folding it again. A moment later, he set it on the table beside the water bottle and ruffled the younger man's hair childishly. "You did a good thing today with saving that boy. Despite what you may ever think in the future, whatever people may throw in your face, just remember that you're a good kid. I never met your parents, but I'm sure they would be proud of you just as much as I am."

Yes, they would be.


	14. The Mistake You Can't Live Without 2

Intermission

The Mistake You Can't Live Without

Summery- With an IQ of well above one hundred and eighty, Mick Rawson was considered a genius. Genius hadn't always served him well when the subject came to social skills.

Rated teen for themes. Nothing particularly explicit. The only pairings, even in the slightest, are Mick and Gina. There are plenty of spoilers for my previous works. You might want to read those if you haven't yet. No one beta reads my work, although I wouldn't refuse, so any grammar and spelling mistakes are my own. Please don't verbally kill me for a typo. Sadly I do not own anything involving Criminal Minds Suspect Behavior. The only things I can claim are my characters, story lines, and imagination.

Now, to the story!

* * *

'_The difference between genius and stupidity is that genius has its limits.' - Albert Einstein_

* * *

Part 2

Mick Rawson was a genius.

Genius, unfortunately, always has a flaw.

For Mick, that flaw involved people and personal relationships. They never ended well for him. It wasn't for lack of trying, obviously, but the problem was never set in stone. He could never truly understand why the relationships he had over the years always ended in failure and heartbreak, no matter how hard he tried to keep them together.

Just as he could never truly understand himself.

Honestly, he blamed it on the antisocial tendencies he had since youth. He blamed it on everything _antisocial _his damned brilliance created. The PTSD was only a small portion of such, and that had only been a problem since he returned from Iraq years ago. His awkwardness around others he wasn't comfortable with, his hyper vigilance to every situation around him, his hatred of confined spaces and large crowds, all of that was present when he was young. He adapted to it through the years, made the symptoms less noticeable with help from Cooper and Liam, but he couldn't diminish them completely.

Because of that, people took notice.

In his youth, girlfriends at school chose to mock him like everyone else. They didn't care that he was a good person beneath the antisocial behavior. Nor did they care that he did actually try to be good to them. They felt pity towards him because he was the strange and brilliant little Welsh foster child that didn't work well with people, so they agreed to date him in spite of their own reputations. It never lasted long enough for Mick to claim that he liked them. And in reality, he found it rather insulting that they only agreed due to pity or a ridiculous dare from a schoolmate.

The years of rejection had made him callous, and therefore he grew careless towards women. It wasn't a matter of sexism. He didn't find women _inadequate _or believe he was better than they were as far as mentality. Jenna would kill him if he ever thought such a ludicrous thing, his father would surely rise from his grave to slap him, and he still loved his mother too much to disgrace her name with that pathetic attitude. No, it stemmed more from the fact that women had always been cruel to him.

Therefore, Mick grew callous towards them.

One night stands with women he couldn't remember names of, only when corpus amounts of alcohol were involved to dull his senses so he didn't have to remember in the morning, didn't amount to anything in the scope of relationships. If anything, it angered the women and placed him at risk of one finding who he really was. They never meant anything on a personal level to him. He knew it was wrong, that his parents would have been ashamed of his actions towards women, but he had _control_ with them. When his mind was ailed after three quarters of a bottle of scotch, control seemed like the best drug in the world. It helped him forget life for a few short hours, made him relatively _normal _until the morning came and all he was left with was a woman he didn't remember next to him and a hangover from hell grinding in his skull.

The number of one night stands decreased after the events in Iraq. After he realized that Abigail Patel sold him and his team to a terrorist cell out of revenge because he cheated on her, he couldn't bring himself to so much as look at another woman in the eyes for quite a long time. It was shameful and disgusting on his part, and after he killed her in self defense, he swore to change.

Change was the equivalent of climbing Everest without any gear.

It took years to break him of the habit. For the first several years after he returned from Iraq, he didn't even bother with nameless women and temporary pleasures. His wounds were still healing, both physically and mentally, and he had no desire to answer the inevitable questions they would have in regards to the scars.

In 2007, he had mustered enough self confidence again. The woman was a prostitute he hired in an off month after an Interpol case. He didn't remember the details due to the bottle of scotch he downed before. But in the morning, when he awoke in an empty motel room in the slums of London with his wallet missing and his dog tags once strung around his neck gone as well as a nasty hangover that made him violently ill for two days, he came to the epiphany that he was making the wrong decisions again.

He was reverting backwards, to the person he fought _not _to be, to a disgraceful excuse for a human being. The antisocial flaw was ruining his life again, just as it had always done.

So he changed. The problem with change was finding where to begin.

In 2009, Cooper pointed him in the right direction.

* * *

In August of 2009, Sam Cooper introduced Mick to Gina LaSalle.

At the time, he was still becoming accustomed to the differences between his life in England and the new life Cooper had given him in the United States. There were plenty differences to keep his mind occupied, some of which he found difficult to understand because they made very little logical sense to him. The city air of DC felt and smelled different than London. People were always shooting him curious glances whenever he spoke, as if it was unusual for a Welshman to announce that he worked with the FBI. The flat he was given after he moved out of Cooper's home was just big enough for him and his belongings, which wasn't entirely different than what he had rented in London, but his neighbors were far more curious than he felt comfortable with.

One night stands were less frequent than what he boasted about. There had only been two over the course of the months, despite what he had led everyone else to believe. It was an excuse, an alibi, to fool everyone who dared to question his rugged appearance in the mornings. Truthfully, nightmares kept him awake at night. Sometimes they were too intense to sleep after he awoke, and the only way to find rest was to run himself into exhaustion on the dark streets of DC. Other times, he did everything in his power to avoid sleep completely because he knew what would happen. No one else needed to know about the insomnia or the nightmares, so he lied to protect himself from the nagging questions.

Aside from the acute variances between the two countries, he was slowly adjusting to life as a civilian again. It had been months since he left the battle grounds of Afghanistan, since he nearly died with the rest of his teammates in an IED explosion that destroyed their armored transport humvee and he trekked the desert for a day before he was found because he was too confused by the piece of shrapnel embedded into the back of his skull to navigate sensible thought.

It was a slow progression unlike any other he had endured before. The nightmares every night were worse, keeping him awake for hours and draining him of energy. Bags under his eyes seemed to paint a story that contradicted his age on his features, and the dull ache in his scarred muscles due to fatigue gave him little reason to get out of bed, or off the couch, in the mornings. In hindsight, the symptoms of his PTSD had been worse when he was in London. It was strange and unexplainable, really, because he did love his family and he knew they were only trying to help him.

But he didn't _want _the help. He wanted to recover himself, just to prove that he wasn't like so many others that had returned from war broken. He didn't need people announcing what was _wrong _with him on a mental level as the psychologist had done in London. Nor did he need someone to listen to his depressing life story because they _thought _it would have made him feel _better _if he spoke about it. In reality, the only thing he needed was time and rest and someone to talk with that wasn't going to judge him.

Gina LaSalle had done that and so much more without even realizing it.

When they met in the park as scheduled, Mick didn't know what to expect. He was given Gina's FBI file for review by Cooper so he knew what she looked like. Slightly dirty blond hair just below her shoulders, bright and eager blue eyes that he found himself staring at unwillingly, and a smart and witty grin on her thin features. Her reputation was small but effective, admirable because it stood in contrast to the dozens of others he had read over that week. She was someone important, someone who had potential to be amazing given the right environment to thrive in.

Moreover, she had a record of uniqueness and unorthodox methods that always ended in her favor. She, and Mick didn't have to read the IQ test to confirm, was brilliant in a similar manner as he was. She saw the world differently too, like no one else Mick had ever met, and that was one of the key reasons why Cooper chose her for the team.

Admittedly, Mick was a bit nervous when they first met. However, after twenty minutes of conversation, he felt at ease with her. He felt as though he could talk with her for hours and never be able to say anything to scare her away. Her smile was infectious, her laugh drawing a toothy and childish grin to his face, and the tone of her voice alone sounded like the perfect melody.

After an hour of football, which Mick was pressed to call it such and not rugby because it was certainly not _foot-ball_, Cooper called the game to an end with the opposing team buying lunch at a pub down the street. Gina and Mick ignored the others around them though. They were too captivated with each other, too enthralled with just chatting to really care about anything else.

It wasn't until five hours had passed and Cooper returned to check on them that Mick realized the time. He hesitated when he finally looked at the watch strapped against his wrist, silently debating whether he should leave to finish the paperwork he had promised to finish before the next morning or stay and continue his conversation with Gina. Ultimately his curiosity won again and he slid back into the seat with an apology to Cooper, stating that he would finish the paperwork later that night when he got the time.

The only bad thing about the entire day was that he didn't arrive at his flat until midnight, and the paperwork had to be rushed in the morning.

But he _slept_ that night. For the first time in years, he was actually able to _sleep_.

* * *

Mick's relationship with Gina was unprecedented to anything he had ever experienced.

She was brilliant in her own way, caring in a manner he had never experienced, sophisticated enough to keep him guessing, and independent and witty to make him see an entirely new perspective of life when she refused to fall for his charm.

Everything she did drew his attention in fascination. The sound of her voice alone captivated him, made his heart sputter when she talked with him like a shy schoolboy talking to the most popular girl in school. It was absurd because both were adults, but he couldn't stop the reaction even if he tried. She became the only reason behind his actions, the one person he felt absolutely comfortable around despite the butterflies in his stomach, the one person who drove away the nightmares he had been experiencing since he returned from Iraq, and the only person he _had_ to protect with every ounce of soul he had left.

When she mentioned that she wanted chocolate ice cream one afternoon whilst working a cold case, he disappeared for an hour to find the best ice cream money could buy for her.

When she mentioned a paper cut from the stack of files she had been sorting, he insisted on a disinfectant bandage and completed the rest of her paperwork until the cut healed.

When she mentioned a nightmare the night before, he gave her a bag of his favorite tea that he had brought from home and advised her to use it, seeing as it usually helped with the restless nights.

When an unsub almost shot her during a case in South Carolina months after she joined the team, he gladly stepped in front of the gun to allow his own bulletproof vest to take the bullets.

Mick couldn't explain it. He felt compelled to protect her, to ensure she was always safe, and there was no logical reason for it. True, they were partners, but that didn't warrant his actions. He considered her a friend, one of the very few he had ever acquired throughout his lifetime, meaning she was priceless. Still, the fact that they had grown to be friends in such a short time and they were partners didn't excuse his actions towards her. It didn't excuse the paranoia for her safety or the feeling of absolute content when around her.

Others had noticed the behavior too. Prophet mocked him childishly, similar to the manner Liam used to tease him when they were in school and Mick fancied Isabella Beaumont but didn't have the courage to admit it. Cooper had made it very clear that the FBI didn't tolerate personal relationships within teams, unlike Interpol, and the Red Cell team he was running was already on thin ice with the director.

Technically, they couldn't be involved more than just close friends and teammates. Not without risking their jobs and Mick's access in the country.

While his older teammates took notice because they worked with him every day, it was actually Jenna who bothered to approach the subject.

Mick had a habit of calling her once a day every morning to chat for a bit before work. So when he called her mobile a week before Christmas that same year, he felt comfortable with the familiarity of her voice through the receiver of his own phone. He was spread on the couch in his flat, watching the news while his phone remained pressed against his ear and a steaming mug of coffee wrapped in his opposite hand. There was still thirty minutes before he had to leave for work, and another ten before Gina knocked on his door to accompany him for the walk as usual.

Jenna had been talking about her days in school whilst he was away, how she planned to attend the University of London when the new year started and Cassie was more excited than she was, when she stopped abruptly and whistled into the phone to gather his attention. "Thinking about Gina again, eh?"

Mick almost chocked on the hot coffee he had just sipped, swallowing it down with effort before pulling his phone away for a minute second to glare at it. Sometimes he believed Jenna could read his thoughts, even when he knew she was just perceptive enough to read his silence. "No." He lied quickly, biting his tongue when she laughed at him through the receiver. "You were just going to tell me what you sent for Christmas. It's another _Doctor Who _keychain, isn't it? Or another box of tea? I've already drank most of what you sent…"

The youngest Rawson interrupted with a sigh, "Nice try, but I'm not daft like you. I know you were thinking about her again. She's the only person you've talked about for the past few months. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you're _smitten _by her."

Mick rolled his eyes subconsciously. "Bollocks. You're talking shite again."

"Am I? Just think about it, Mickey. All you talk about now is her. What the two of you did the day before, what she wore, what was said. You hang onto every word she says and everything she does like she's royalty." She paused for a moment, shifting the phone against her ear as she dropped her tone cautiously. "Liam used to act the same way when he first met Fiona. He was absolutely head-over-heels for her and he didn't even realize it until he saw her with another guy…"

Mick set the coffee mug on the coffee table harder than intended, a tight frown crossing his features as he groped for the remote to the television beside him and muted the daily weather report. "It isn't like that."

"You can deny it all you want, but you're only lying to yourself. Everyone else can see it. Liam and Fiona loved each other, and Liam acted the same way you are now when they first met. That's got to mean something."

Yes, it meant everything. Mick knew he was in denial because it felt better than acceptance. The problem was that he didn't know _how _to admit it, or if Gina would even be willing to listen.

* * *

An _epiphany_ is a sudden intuitive leap of understanding through a striking occurrence.

For Mick, the epiphany seemed to come in stages.

Certain events throughout his life had made him reconsider his outlook of the world. Those events were rarely ever positive, and more often than not left him emotionally weary of people. The night his parents died, the day he found Isabella Beaumont hanging by her ceiling fan, the day he tried to kill the bastard responsible for her suicide, the events in Iraq and hellish recovery afterwards. All of which painted the worst kind of impression for mankind in his mind. He didn't see the world as he did during his time in Wales, through innocence and clarity only a child could understand, but as something dangerous and evil. People had hurt others without just cause, had hurt him with reason as to why, and Mick found it impossible to forgive.

Then he met Cooper and Gina.

The stages were more positive with them. Cooper helped him start a new life after the mess he endured overseas. Gina found a way to patch the holes in his morality without realizing it. Both had been the cause for his change in perspective again. He began to see hope for people, for himself, with them. They prompted change for the better and he gladly fell for the trap.

Thinking back, one of the main events that sold the idea occurred during the period of months Jenna was presumed dead.

Mick had studied the common stages of grief during psychology classes at the FBI academy as well as during school in his youth. They never occurred in a single order because no one grieved the same exact way.

During the six months the world thought Jenna Rawson died in a plane crash over the Atlantic, depression was Mick's enemy. Depression had worsened his PTSD to almost be unbearable, isolating him from people as much as possible, restricting sleep night after night, making him irritable and impossible to work with on a daily basis. He tried to push it away. Alcohol did nothing but leave him buzzed for most of those months, which he didn't argue about because it meant that his mind couldn't focus on his _supposedly _dead baby sister. One night stands with nameless women didn't help him sleep at night.

And no amount of _talking _brought his sister back from the grave any faster.

Despite his attitude and the awful manner in which he treated his teammates during his grieving, Gina was a constant reminder of hope. She gave him enough space to grieve on his own, just as she knew he needed, but tried to stay close to him when necessary. Why she stayed when he pushed her away never occurred to him. He didn't understand why she cared enough to tolerate him, why she didn't just abandon him like everyone else always did.

Gina fell into a routine of her own making during those months. Mick wasn't allowed room to argue when she spent her evenings in his flat with him. When she arrived with dinner, she ensured he ate everything in the take-out box before he could leave the dinning table. Every time he argued that he wasn't hungry, just to spite the world because he hadn't actually eaten anything else during the day, she threatened to have him committed to the local hospital because he was starving himself. They spent the night watching movies together on the couch until he fell asleep. And when he awoke in the morning, he was surprised to find a pillow and blanket from his bedroom wrapped around himself and a note beneath a plate of eggs and toast in the kitchen. The food was stored in the refrigerator indefinitely and he spent the rest of the day waiting for her or someone else to arrive.

Even after he was allowed back to work, their cases were relatively local. His teammates alternated to spend time with him, but he remained distant. Gina, however, kept a routine that was actually appreciated for its familiarity.

Months later, after he had been played for a fool again and had his heart metaphorically ripped out of his chest in early November, she was there for him just like the first time.

The entire year had been hell from start to finish, and after the memories of his days in Iraq were drudged to the surface rather violently again, he had enough.

So he tried to drink himself to death. Realistically, drinking three fourths a bottle of forty year old scotch within two hours probably should have killed him. With the state of his former health, he should have been unconscious for the entirety of the night and Cooper _should _have contacted the local emergency services because he could have been suffering from alcohol poisoning. It certainly made him ill for a week afterwards, but once the alcohol left his system, he recovered fairly quickly. He didn't want Gina or anyone else to see him as the nervous mess he had turned into. Hence why he did his best to hide in his flat. Depression had overtaken him again and this time, he didn't know how to cope. He hated himself for multiple reason, each one just as ridiculous as the previous, and the breakdown in the flat was never meant to be witnessed by anyone.

But Gina knew something was wrong from their conversation on the plane ride home.

Gina found him in the flat, a nervous wreck from start to finish, and she never once left his side. She didn't judge him during the week he spent in her flat while he was recovering from potential alcohol poisoning. Nor did she hide her worry and fear for him any longer. Instead, she became his stability, his reason for maintaining a somewhat healthy life.

Because of her, he found somewhere to rest his head and someone protect him from himself.

He found family and a home, even if it was temporary, and someone he couldn't live without.

* * *

Mick's epiphany came in stages.

It was still a work in progress.

Mick couldn't say without a shadow of doubt that he _loved _Gina LaSalle. He didn't know what to label the feeling. She meant the world to him and that was never questioned. But he hadn't come to that stage of the epiphany yet. He hadn't realized that the feeling _could_ have been mutual, that she may have developed the same unspeakable feelings for him, and therefore he couldn't admit it.

There was evidence to support the idea that it was mutual.

Aside from everything she had done over the past few years, she had become more open towards him after his last dance with scotch. She openly fussed and worried around him, practically glued herself to his side, and became the only person in the United States Mick had ever met that liked watching _Doctor Who _in the middle of the night after a nightmare as he did. Gina found a way to ease his troubles over the course of months using gentle and caring tactics that often caused Beth and Prophet to tease them.

She found what was important to him and carved herself into the mix.

After the events in Alaska at the end of 2011, their relationship changed once more.

Gina and Mick knew each other well enough to understand when one should concede with the other. Like most practical relationships, it was a measure of give and take that fell into rhythm with time. More often than not, Mick was the one conceding for her benefit, even if he didn't always agree with her decisions. What he lacked in mental stamina and social skills, she made up for with rationalized and logical reasons that worked well with his natural desire for perfection. Likewise, he countered her cautiousness with his brash attitude.

They had an agreement of sorts since the nightmare in Alaska revealed his past tortures in Iraq to everyone. He wasn't allowed to lie to her. Under normal circumstances, that wouldn't have been a problem. Mick only lied to her when necessary anyways, and the lies themselves were the hardest to sell because she seemed to have a natural instinct for discerning what was true. Gina had been very specific when the rule was set in place between them, and she simply would not take _no_ as an answer.

She began to fuss over him more than he actually appreciated. It was a sign of something unspoken between the two, something Mick didn't have the heart to confront yet, and the implications seemed to speak volumes. Gina didn't view Mick as _incompetent _and Mick understood that. However, her constant worries towards him was unnerving. Her intentions were sound and justifiable, but Mick had always been the _lone wolf _type.

He never appreciated people fussing over him, even when he was recovering from his wounds with family in London.

In early February, Gina had taken her worries to a new level as she manipulated him to see a dentist because she feared the worst.

Mick argued that there was no need for it. The area where he had lost a tooth during the mess in Alaska _was_ horribly infected and he could barely move his jaw to talk or eat, but he had experienced worse in the past. In the past, he had almost half his teeth ripped out with pliers over the course of a month, so an infection of that level was considered nothing to worry about. It would ebb away on its own, just as it had done before. He tried to excuse it as expected, and had even gone as far as asking her to punch him in the jaw to break the abscess. The penicillin Flores had given him did help tremendously and he reasoned that was the best option given the likelihood of the doctor giving him the same kind of prescription for a week anyways. Even if it was potentially deadly. Naturally, she smashed his toe with her heel instead and chastised him for his carelessness.

It wasn't until he awoke with a pounding headache in morning of the sixth, with his temple throbbing mercilessly and his thoughts skewed by the pain, that he finally agreed with Gina.

Once at the dentist office two hours later, he almost regretted his decision. It had been over a year and a half since he last visit to the dentist, seeing as the prospect of being held down whilst someone stuck metal instruments in his mouth drew uncontrollable panic, and he was admittedly nervous. He was sure the doctor would lecture him about his lack of annual visits, as well as ask questions as to why his records were redacted with the exception of what was needed to complete the job at hand. One look at the scars left in his jaw and the amount of false implanted teeth would have painted a rather vivid picture.

Thankfully the waiting room was scarcely full and strangely calm, and those awaiting treatment paid them little attention. Mick kept his hands busy with a shell casing while he subconsciously profiled everyone in the room. Beside him in another chair, Gina messaged Cooper on her phone while simultaneously patting his bouncing knee every few minutes to temporarily calm him.

After fifteen minutes with the x-ray machine and another fifteen waiting for the doctor to enter the room with the results, Mick was ready to leave. The room was too small with its stocked counters lining the walls and no window to speak of, the reclining chair in the center too familiar to that he had been strapped in during a few interrogation sessions in Iraq while they removed his teeth, and there was virtually only one exit.

Mick wasn't normally claustrophobic, but at that moment, he felt that he _had _to get out or he was going to go mad.

"Mick, just sit down. He'll come in once he has the results. Besides, I'm sure pacing isn't making your headache any better." Gina tried to coax him to the chair in the center of the room, gently grasping his forearm with a tug in emphasis. "For me?" She added with a sincere and pleading expression Mick couldn't deny.

Truthfully, the headache had eased considerably with the pacing. Mick could think somewhat more clearly, and the actions aided him to control his nerves. He was hesitant to listen at first, studying the closed door and the area cautiously for a long moment, but settled for sitting on the end as Gina took residence beside him.

Minutes had passed in silence before the doctor arrived. He was an elderly Asian man with years of experience, slightly short and thin in stature but intimidating in the way he wordlessly demanded attention when he stepped in a room. The x-rays taken were pinned to a light screen on the wall for all to see while he explained the procedure. Mick was surprised when he didn't ask about the false teeth or question his lack of previous visits. He ignored the scars visible along the jaw through the x-rays and clarified what he had to do to ensure that Mick would leave the office better than when he entered.

He explained how a piece of tooth, the same tooth that had been forcefully knocked out of his jaw months before, remained embedded in the gum. It restricted the gum from healing properly and the infection was a direct result. All that was needed was to remove the fragment and maintain a two week regiment of heavy antibiotics to combat the infection. Unfortunately, it required cutting into the gum to remove it, and he wouldn't have been conscious for that. The procedure was scheduled to only last two hours. It was simple, really, and the doctor had ensured him that had done a thousand of them over the last ten years. There were rarely any complications.

Mick wasn't convinced until Gina brought to light a startling realization. The infection could, if not taken care of soon, break through the jaw and into the bloodstream. Which would have traveled to the brain or heart and killed him within a matter of days. He couldn't refuse when she sounded so afraid for him, so pleading and desperate in a manner that tugged at his heart just to see the worry in her eyes.

He couldn't refuse because she played him, because she knew he would do anything for her if she just pleaded hard enough.

Gina stayed with him while they prepared for the procedure. They didn't strap him to the chair as he feared. But they did follow standard procedure and monitored him closely whilst administering the Nitrous Oxide and oxygen. He wasn't agreeable for the first thirty minutes into the preparations. The monitoring equipment taped against his chest beneath his shirt annoyed him to the point of frustration, and the clip on his finger was a bit too tight for his liking. The mask for the gas was situated against his face, and for the first few minutes, he didn't feel any change.

He was still nervous and jittery, glancing at the only exit longingly while his fingers scraped against the armrests of the chair. It was too uncomfortable to relax, even with the gas he was breathing, and he couldn't sit still long enough for the gas to take full effect. The doctor was still fussing with the machine, the nurse preparing the utensils needed on a nearby counter, and the sight of a scalpel being pulled from a sanitized package by the nurse began to create panic. It wasn't a justifiable panic. They were professionals hired to help him. There was no _reason_ to be afraid of the sharp instruments being splayed on a tray, of the gas being pumped into his system or the IV needle being prepared to administer the sedative into the back of his hand.

No matter how much Mick tried to find comfort in Gina's fingers intertwined with his own, he couldn't separate irrational fear from reality.

The panic was too real, too consuming as it gnawed at his senses like an angry animal, and Mick found himself sitting up within a matter of seconds. He yanked the mask off his face, his arms getting tangled in the wires of the monitoring equipment, and fought to free himself from the small confines of the chair. The tubes of the mask wrapped itself around his neck and settled the mask against his mouth as the wires taped against his chest knotted with the dog tags beneath his shirt. For all his seemingly useless fighting, he couldn't seem to free himself of the equipment or the panic. It was almost tangible, the frantic beat of his heart in his chest and the overwhelming desire to stand on his own two feet again.

If he didn't find a way to free himself soon, he was undoubtedly and unwillingly going to hurt someone.

He could feel the effects of the Nitrous Oxide begin to muddle his thoughts with every breath he took. The panic quickened his breathing, which in turn caused him to breath the gas more rapidly than what was usually recommended. After a few deep breaths, he felt the tension from his muscles begin to dissipate. He couldn't fight Gina's hands on his shoulders as she gently pushed him back into a reclined position. Nor could he stop the doctor from readjusting the mask back over his face correctly. His limbs began to feel heavy and lethargic, warmth spreading from the tips of his toes to the ends of his fingers, and the panic started to fade as the world around him became blurry.

Mick didn't feel the prick of the needle entering the back of his hand. Even if he did, he doubted he would have cared. The room and the inhabitants became impossible to focus on. He knew the sedation was mingling with the Nitrous Oxide and it was only a matter of seconds before sleep won over his desire to remain alert.

None of it mattered though. All he could care about, all he could focus on, was Gina standing beside him. She promised to be there when he awoke after the procedure and he believed her.

Unlike Mick, Gina rarely ever lied blatantly. So Mick knew she would be waiting for him. He knew she would be the one to make sure he returned home safely and shadowed the procedure to ensure nothing could go wrong.

He trusted her to be there for him without reason, and he had no doubts that she would.

* * *

The epiphany came in stages.

When Mick did awake an hour after the procedure was finished, Gina and Prophet bought him home.

In actuality, _home _was Gina's flat. _Home _was the small two bedroom flat he shared with a teammate he grew to adore, with a bed he could safely call his own and a kitten they raised as if he were a child. _Home _was with Gina and Nikola and friends who cared for him unconditionally. For the longest time he could have argued that _home _was with family in London or Wales, but the longer he stayed with his new family, the less he believed that.

Mick didn't remember arriving home. He vaguely recalled waking to Gina smiling over him, gently easing him to his feet with Prophet on his opposite side, and the two carefully walked him out of the building and to the awaiting car. They discussed something between them and the doctor, but Mick wasn't entirely sure what the subject involved due to the fact that his hearing was still as patchy as any prospect of rational thought. He did recall mumbling something close to a _thank you _before Prophet left the flat. Mick was sure it was slurred by the gauze still clamped into his gum though. Gina eased him into an old tee shirt and shorts and tucked him back into bed to sleep away the rest of the medication in his system.

When he awoke completely in early evening, the pressure in his jaw that had been a painful constant for the past several days had reduced drastically. He felt _better, _comfortable even, and that was quite an improvement. The sedatives he had been given as well as the Nitrous Oxide had left him fairly groggy, but the feeling was fading with the minutes he remained conscious. Standing was still out of the question, seeing as his first attempt caused the room to twist and his stomach to flip.

That was the last time he ever agreed to Nitrous Oxide for any kind of medical procedure.

Gina must have sensed him, just as she always did, because she entered the room within a few minutes. A grin slipped onto her features as she set a glass of water on the nightstand and retrieved a paper bag given by the doctor from the dresser top. She gracefully turned her head as she propped the room trash bin in his hands for him to remove the bloodied gauze, then offered a new folded square to take its place after a few sips of water. Once the bin was on the floor, she sat on the edge of the bed and whistled expectantly towards the open doorway.

"Someone was worried about you." She stated as Nikola bounded into the room excitedly.

His short stub of a tail wagged enthusiastically, the black and gray fur blending into the dark carpet as his legs carried him in galloping leaps, and his gaze fixated on the bed in determination. He stopped abruptly at the edge of the bed, seemingly to calculate how high he had to jump, and sat back on his hind legs. Nikola had a tendency to miss when he jumped due to the chunk of his tail that had been cut off months before Mick and Gina adopted him. Therefore Gina scooped him into her arms, despite his squeaks of disapproval, and placed him on the bed with a gentle sweep of her fingers against his fur.

"He wasn't the only one, eh?" Mick winced at the slur to his tone, his accent thicker as he had to talk over the gauze still in his mouth. Nikola had rolled onto his side to stretch, and Mick used that as a distraction from just how strange his own voice sounded to him.

"Yes, I was worried too." Gina admitted with a half-hearted shrug. Mick didn't miss the way she adverted her eyes from him, or the way she was hesitant to not fuss with her necklace around her neck. Both of which were a clear sign that she was trying to hide something. "You say the damnedest things when you're high as a kite." She grinned slightly, and Mick felt himself frown in curiosity.

"You can't hold anything against me, darling. Not in any court of law, anyways. Whatever was said was a product of my imagination. Therefore it has no relevance to the here and now." He defended himself quickly, pulling his hand away from Nikola as the kitten began to clean his fingers with his tongue. "Just to refresh my memory, what was said exactly?"

She folded her hands in her lap as her grin faded, and Mick knew in an instant that those weren't the words she was looking for. Whatever he said must have been uncharacteristically honest and sincere. Otherwise, she probably wouldn't have given too much thought towards it.

"Well, you rambled about anything for half an hour during the ride home. The people on the street must have been pretty funny for some reason, because you just kept profiling them for most of the ride. You promised to buy Prophet a round of drinks at our favorite bar this weekend. By the way, I think you may have to postpone that." She paused hesitantly, fingers twisting her necklace anxiously as she studied the blanket between them.

"And? I didn't confess anything embarrassing, right? No youthful misadventures or absurd fun-facts?"

Gina chewed on her bottom lip as a smirk drifted to her face. "I wish it were that simple. Let's just say that I always knew you had a heart. But I like my job with you and Cooper and the rest of our teammates. We can't afford to lose everything we've worked for in the FBI because of a mistake like falling for each other."

She didn't need to explain any further. Mick read between the lines, between what wasn't spoken, and it felt as though she had ripped his heart out of his chest. He understood in those few words what he had inadvertently admitted earlier. In his muddle state of mind, he had confessed just enough to frighten her. He had told her how much she meant to him, and how much he had grown to care for her in a way he could barely describe.

He came to realize that she wasn't ready to hear it. She still valued her position at the FBI too much and wasn't willing to risk it yet. It wasn't matter of _if_ the feeling was mutual, it was a matter of _how _they could make it work successfully. They couldn't, _she _couldn't, and that warranted distance from her. She was afraid of commitment just as much as he was. But Mick had learned how to set that fear aside when necessary. Gina had been the one to teach him, and she didn't even know it.

Mick knew she was only protecting herself from betrayal. He had done the same for the majority of his life. But her words stung straight to his soul, and he didn't know whether to be angry or heartbroken by them. So he settled for a mask of chivalry because that was the best he could do at the moment. "So this conversation can never leave this room. I get it, darling, really. Can't have a relationship with a _mistake_, can you." His last words were undeniably bitter, and he could have slapped himself for the slip had Nikola not kept his hand busy.

Gina shook her head slowly, analyzing him as she replied defensively, "That's not what I meant. I _meant _that we can't become something more. Not without consequences. And for the record, I don't think anything we've done so far is a _mistake _and I'd like to keep it that way."

His epiphany came in stages.

Mick understood, as he nodded in agreement reluctantly, that there was only one option to change her views. She didn't necessarily mean that _he _was a mistake, that living together under one roof with a cat they were raising together and a clear unspoken bond between them, but Mick couldn't help the thought that she didn't quite believe it herself.

Somehow he had to prove that he was worth the risk.

The problem was finding how to accomplish such a thing covertly.

* * *

Note- Ta-da! Hello people! I'm back!  
This was an idea I had for a while and it's been nagging at me to finally write it. The format is different than what I've done before. It felt more like a writing exercise, to be honest. I love challenges when it comes to writing so this is, more or less, testing myself with a new format. Personally, I think it worked well. There's a lot of spoilers for my previous works. Some of which will probably get expanded on later. Particularly, the second half plays into the current main story. I wanted to do a little more with Mick's relationship with Gina through his eyes and this just kind of wrote itself.  
I think that's all for now. Unfortunately I lost my seventeen year old cat today (On my dad's birthday which wasn't a great birthday present for him) due to a severe stroke. So I'm admittedly a bit distracted from writing. Reviews have always made me feel better. Leave a review if you can. I really appreciate all of the support from everyone.


	15. Broken In Our Own Little Ways 1

Intermission

Broken In Our Own Little Ways

Summary- Beth Griffith always knew there was more to Mick Rawson than met the eye. The proof is in his journals.

Rated high teen for themes. I have tried to keep anything potentially triggering or disturbing at a minimum as far as descriptions. The only parings, even in the slightest, are Mick and Gina. Although, towards the end, it could be interpreted as Mick and Beth. This plays directly into my main story line so you may want to read that if you haven't already. There are spoilers for it. No one beta reads my work, so please don't verbally kill me for a typo. Any grammar and spelling mistakes are my own. Unfortunately I do not own anything involving Criminal Minds Suspect Behavior. I am simply borrowing them for my own entertainment.

Now, to the story!

* * *

Part 1

'_Fifth of January, 1992._

_This weathered black leather book is the carrier for your in-depth observations. It is the safest and most important item you own, and should be cherished as such. Should something happen to you on these unforgiving London streets, should you disappear at the hands of these bastards that show us no kindness for our troubles or youth, these yellowing pages inscribed with your very existence must survive. You must tell the world of our stories through these pages, lad, otherwise no one else will be able to share them once we're gone. And I prefer to live forever, whether through written literature or the verbal legends passed from one generation to the next. I trust you will carry this to your last dying breath, if not for me, than for all those who may have suffered the same fate as us without guidance. - William Niall Holmes.'_

* * *

The importance of a diary or journal varies upon the individual writing within it.

Beth Griffith had kept many journals, rarely ever referred as diaries, over the course of her life. She recorded her most personal thoughts on paper from the day she turned thirteen years old. The written memories were rarely ever possessive, and she always associated such darkness of thought with her journals because it was necessary. When her mother and brother were killed in a car accident and her father fell to pieces while she was left to find survival alone, her journals became the crutch to her soul. Beth couldn't live peacefully without expressing her grievances through harsh words on disheveled pages. She had no desire to turn into a mirror of her father, and had it not been for those journals, she most likely would have abandoned life without a second thought.

Therefore, despite her previous intentional impressions of apathy, she _understood _the semblance of what she was reading.

She didn't intend to spy or invade Mick Rawson's privacy. He was a very private man, who often took great offense to those who dared to intrude upon his personal life, and Beth honestly respected that. It was one of the few things she shared in common with the younger Welshman. But self control against intense nagging curiosity had never been her strongest personality trait.

When she found his box of worn journals, she hesitated to even touch it. There were a few minutes of pause before curiosity won over the fear of undeniable consequences. It was wrong to intrude, to even think about deciphering his illegible handwriting in such a personal book, and had she not been alone in Gina LaSalle's apartment with only the kitten Mick and Gina raised together, she never would have even placed a finger on the frayed cardboard box.

Gina had requested Beth to look after her kitten, Nikola, for the afternoon until she and Mick returned from their visit to the local chiropractor. Mick, although he was too stubborn to admit it, awoke in a state of panic earlier that late February morning. Gina wouldn't go into detail per his orders, but she did say that he couldn't stand straight without a crutch and the scarred muscles in his back seemed to be screaming with every breath he took. The appointment was scheduled to end no later than four o'clock in the afternoon. However, Beth anticipated longer considering the amount of questions Mick and Gina were required to answer without truly revealing anything pertaining to his past tortured history.

When she arrived at the apartment shortly after the two left, a note taped to the door giving her written permission for any neighbor that may have questioned her and a spare key taken from Gina's desk at the office in hand, she didn't necessarily have a set of goals for the next several hours. It was the last Saturday in February, and Cooper had worked the entire team relentlessly on their current case over the past week. He had given them the weekend to themselves to recollect their thoughts before Monday. Unfortunately, days away from the pressure of serial murder cases did little to relax Beth.

Nikola greeted her at the door as usual. His short remaining stub of his tail wagged excitedly in a strange display of an eager puppy, the long black and gray fir disheveled as he wrapped himself around her left boot in greeting. Beth scooped his small body into her hand easily to avoid stepping on him and headed for the sofa in the living area. He squeaked and squirmed until she placed him on the cushion and massaged his head affectionately.

Beth never had a pet when she was young. There was a stray orange and white tabby cat that found shelter in the garage of her home between the ages of eight and eleven. Against her father's wishes, she and her mother named him _Tigger_ after her favorite _Winnie The Pooh _character at the time. _Tigger_ was found by her father in the street one morning when she was eleven, where he had drifted to the dumpsters by the road awaiting the trash company to pick them up and was hit by a car when he slid off of the closed dumpster lid. It was twisted happenstance of fate, she realized when she was older, but at the time she swore to never attach herself to another animal.

Yet, the more time she spent with Nikola, the more she couldn't hide her fondness for him.

She spent an hour gathering Nikola's cat toys scattered from one end of the apartment to the other and compiling them on the coffee table. How he managed to hide his toy mice on the bathroom closet floor, she could only imagine. She watched television for a short while, although daytime programming was horribly boring, while she dangled Nikola's toys above his head for him to play with.

Shortly after noon, she ordered a small pizza from the pizzeria down the street and searched the refrigerator in the kitchen for some type of beverage other than milk and water after it arrived half an hour later. Gina had always been health conscious to a point, but even more so after she began living with Mick. There were no sodas or alcohol anymore, hardly any junk food save for a bag of miniature peanut butter cups stashed covertly behind a jug of apple juice, which Beth assumed was Mick's doing, and a partially empty bag of cheddar flavored potato chips on the counter beside the oven. She settled for a glass of apple juice and filled Nikola's food dish on the floor, giving a sharp whistle to draw the kitten's attention.

When the kitten didn't appear in the doorway within the first two minutes, she whistled and called his name louder. The cadence of the apartment was troublesome. She had left the television on to a daytime reality police drama that she found funny to watch the criminals when they realized they had been caught, seeing as the serial killers she apprehended were rarely ever _easy, _and the lack of any other noise save for that caused her to worry.

Nikola had a tendency to be adventurous and curious, just like Mick, and it rarely ever ended well for him.

Beth found him a few minutes later in the spare bedroom Mick had claimed as his own. The rear of his small body was poking out of the slanted closet door, furry stub of a tail wagging back and forth as he worked something out of the small confines with his teeth. Beth closed the distance between them and gathered him into her arms, setting him on the messy bed sheets with a hasty ruffle of the fur on his head. As Nikola shook his head to straighten the slight Mohawk Beth had given him, she found the small wad of colorful yarn he had been trying to remove from the back pocket of a pair of jeans sticking out of a familiar tattered suitcase.

"For a kitten, you are really too smart for your own good." She stated aloud with a smirk as she drooped the yarn overtop Nikola, watching him twist and turn to get his teeth around it.

The state of the closet drew her attention after a few moments. A vast majority of clothes were still folded or thrown in suitcases, but a few sets of Mick's common attire hung on metal hangers as if he were afraid to add more to the rack. She counted half a dozen boxes of various sizes in the midst. Most were folded shut and carried an international shipping label, obviously being those he had gotten from family in England. Beth recognized one in particular as that sent by his sister in December. Various books and small trinkets were visible between the few DVD boxes of _Doctor Who _episodes he had missed.

Aside from the pieces of his life outside the United States, such as his favored science fiction novels that appeared decades old and a large gray leather scrap book she had seen Jenna fuss with shortly before she left the States and back to London, a larger and far more decrepit box beneath the stack captured her eye. The weight of those on top crushed the edges inwards, tape peeling away from the sides with age, and the international shipping label was in pieces as if he had tried to peel it off. Beth stared at it intently for a long few moments, teetering on her heels and bracing herself on the edge of the closet door. It was older than the others, clearly more used given the track marks on the carpet, and obviously placed on the bottom for a reason. But curiosity was relentless with the passing seconds.

With a final glance at the doorway to ensure Mick and Gina weren't going to barge in on her intrusions, she shuffled the boxes off of it and set them aside to drag the cardboard into the open room. Once it was in a position to wrap her arms around the sides, she drew a heavy breath and placed it on the corner of the bed. Nikola didn't appear fond of her actions as he leapt suddenly and cowered towards the pillows.

"You are such a cute little coward." Beth smirked as Nikola poked his head out from beneath a pillow. She pulled the tape partially away carefully, trying to ensure that she could reattach it once she was finished, and opened the flaps hesitantly. It was strange to think that there was a reason to be so cautious. Mick had never set any type of defense against his belongings other than locks before. He wasn't the type to set small charges against intruders, especially in the presence of those he could harm unintentionally. Therefore Beth didn't know why she paused halfway exactly.

The nagging intuition voice in the back of her conscious told her it was _wrong_. If Mick wanted someone else to know what was inside that very box, he would have said something sooner. He would have been more open towards his teammates if he thought he could _trust _them explicitly. Beth, however, knew that wasn't necessarily the issue. She was merely giving too much thought to the feeling causing her to chew on her bottom lip in contemplation. Mick did _trust _them as a team. He proved it when he told them about the hell he endured in Iraq all those years ago. But Beth couldn't shake the feeling that the contents of the box were far more secretive than anything else she pondered about him.

Nikola crawled away from the pillows to sniff the box curiously, tilting his head as he ran his nose centimeters against the cardboard. "Do you think it's safe?" Beth questioned aloud, watching the kitten ignore her for a long second. "Yeah, you're probably right. One quick peek shouldn't hurt. It's not exactly _spying_, right?" Nikola paid her no attention as he continued his sniffing, and Beth felt rather stupid talking to him. He was a _cat_, meaning his opinion on matters such as this didn't actually apply. Even if he could communicate with her, she doubted she would have listened.

With a final sigh, she opened the box completely and peered inside. She expected weapons or shell casings, more books he had read a million times over the past twenty years or even his old British SAS uniforms and awards folded neatly.

Instead, she found it full to the brink with leather journals. The colors and styles varied significantly. Some were a classic rustic brown or black, others various shades of dark brick red and tan. The latches were each uniquely separate from each other, with actual padlocks requiring a key, lengths of leather tied tightly around the sides, or a metal clasp that clutched a leather buckle. Each carried stains of some kind and tears in the spines from age. As she plucked the topmost and studied the exterior, she realized that the pages themselves were a rough cut yellowing paper, like an ancient diary meant to be showcased in a museum. There were no words printed on the exterior save for the initials _MGR_ carved in Mick's familiar cursive handwriting. They were beautifully classic and symbolic, and Beth felt as though she was holding a piece of history in her hands rather than a journal written by her teammate.

The black leather tied in a knot against the rough spine unwound with the assistance of her fingernails. She shuffled it in her hands as she sat on the corner of the bed, allowing the leather to drop in her lap as she splayed it open to the first page. The handwriting was smoother than she had ever seen from Mick before, young and steady and meticulous. However, the first five pages were written in what she assumed was Welsh because she couldn't translate the words. There were a few that stuck out because they resembled English, as if he had started the word in Welsh but finished in English because he became distracted by something. The date read as January in 1992, which placed Mick at roughly almost nine years old. His birthday was the eleventh of April, which was around the corner.

More than likely, that was the first entry he had ever made in any sort of journal.

The sixth page was a simple yet elegant quote from his foster brother, Liam Holmes. Beth assumed that his name was abbreviated just as Mick's was, but the more she whispered his full name to herself, the more she realized how Irish it sounded rather than Scottish. Not that it was such a bad thing, exactly. It was just a bit strange and curious.

Mick hadn't gone into great detail about Liam. He mentioned that the man was almost a year older than him, born in the hills of Scotland but moved to London with his parents when he was seven, and had only been on the streets for a short time before he met Mick and Jenna. Liam was an avid guitarist in his spare time, which meant Mick spent more nights listening to his guitar than he cared to admit, and he spent years trying to teach Mick how to play the instrument. Mick could never find the patience for it though. Judging by what Beth had just read Liam was impressively wise beyond his years, which was a trait Mick seemed to mimic easily.

Beth came to a sudden realization as she flipped through the pages. The journal in hand was strictly for the years 1993 and 1992. Everything that happened to the siblings in 1992 and 1993, every adventure and wayward quote and seemingly inconsequential idea, was scrawled in youthful handwriting barely resembling that of the Mick Rawson she knew. Much of the words were in Welsh, as if he knew the likelihood of someone else understanding the language in London was slim, and therefore meant for his own eyes. Beth was tempted to use the translator on her laptop computer to decipher them, but decided against it. Those written in English were uncharacteristically innocent. His vocabulary was more elegant than most children his age and his choice of words were enlightening to the idea that he spent much of his time with old literature rather than in the presence of people.

However, it was the few scraps of paper and aged tattered photos folded neatly between pages that portrayed an honest picture of Christmas in 1993. There were crude sketches of faces and buildings, people and places he lived with, dreams displayed in a single wordless scene. Beth had never pictured Mick as the type to draw in his free time, although she had seen him scribble on napkins when he was bored whilst at dinner together, but the sketches were quite impressive for someone his age. The photos were a mixture of blacks and grays and fading colors. It looked as though he had a friend or foster parent during the late winter of 1993 that dabbled in photography.

One in particular was recognizable as a significantly younger version of Mick and Jenna, with who she assumed was Liam between them. The colored backdrop was a scarcely decorated Christmas tree beside a lit fireplace. In front of the fireplace, the siblings were dressed in their night attire as they sat on the rug before the tree and peeled wrapping paper from the small boxes they had been given. Liam, slightly larger in the shoulders than Mick with short orange-brown hair dripping just above harsh blue eyes, was caught in mid-motion of pulling a package of guitar strings and picks from his box. Jenna was given a beautiful seasonal cloth angel doll that she clung to lovingly, while Mick grinned excitedly at a thick hunter green hard covered book with printed gold illustrating the title elegantly perched in his lap.

Beth couldn't read the title, but she knew by the size and color that it was decades old. Books weren't printed with that level elegance since before the Second World War. Once she slid the photo out of the paperclip attaching it to a single page, she found herself grinning in amazement at the words.

* * *

'_Twenty fifth of December, 1993._

_When I was young, perhaps five years or sooner, mum and dad took me to a theatre in Cardiff for my birthday. I don't recall a grand amount of detail from the experience. However, I do remember scenes from the play we watched. I remember sitting on my father's lap, watching the actors and actresses in innocent fascination, and thinking how wonderful it would have been if the play were real. _

_If pirates and fairies, magic and adventures in a land where you could never age were real, than I so desperately wish to spend my life in such a place. Liam and Jenna would have to follow, and we could join the Lost Boys and live our lives together forever. In all honesty, sometimes, when I am reminded of the generosity of those who contradict the evil we face week after week, I believe Neverland would be a blessing. _

_I've come to the understanding that there are few adults in this world who care for children such as us. The last several months have been too challenging just to survive and I can't help but blame them for it. Liam has kept us safe, provided shelter and food and protection between the homes forced upon us, and I am indescribably grateful to have found a brother like him. But he assures us that Mister Gregory Franklin is a kind hearted man and I was less than encouraged to believe him at the beginning. _

_Mister Franklin is a kindly man that contradicts the usual prejudice of the rich. He owns a vast collection of classic books in his manor library. We've only been his guests for a week and already has he allowed me access to the cherished library. He warned me to be careful with them a few days ago, seeing as I have found a liking for chocolate milk whilst reading on the carpeted rug floor, and I have heeded his words to the letter. He doesn't seem the dangerous type like our past legal guardians. A man of his age and thinly short stature can hardly be considered a threat, really. _

_Despite his wealth, he seems to be very lonely. There are pictures upon these walls that I pass every day, a few rooms that are to remain locked per his request, and the sadness on his wrinkled features whenever he looks at us tells quite a tragic tale. He had a family at one point. The details are never to be known by us. But the pictures of a beautiful woman and five happy children scattered about the home suggest they had long since passed. _

_Two days ago he took us Christmas shopping. I haven't believed in Santa Clause since I was five years old, at which time I have seemed to refuse a great many beliefs that had never been questioned before the death of my parents, and Jenna came to the same disappointing realization last Christmas when Santa didn't bring anything but a heroin addict with a needle in his arm who tried to kill us. Of course, the only decent thing to that entire experience was Liam. Therefore, we appreciated that Mister Franklin wanted to give us a good Christmas for the first time in a long while. _

_He wasn't going to buy us everything we wanted in the toy store. There was no need for it. It wasn't for lack of trying, rest assured, but Liam reminded him that we don't desire the world in frivolous trinkets. We, mostly Liam and I because Jenna is still too young to understand the prospect of necessity, wanted nothing more than something worthwhile to hold onto for the rest of our lives. He wasn't entirely sure what to get us at that point, so he asked what our most beloved thing was before our parents passed away. _

_Jenna loved the dolls our mum made for her. She had quite the collection before they were turned to ashes. They were patches of fabric that didn't necessarily match, which made them unforgettable and unique. I know she won't talk about it, but she remembers the times our mum and dad played with her and the dolls in the wooden dollhouse our dad made for her, and I know she misses those moments just as much as I do. _

_Liam's father taught him how to play guitar when he was six years old. It was something they did together when the elder Holmes wasn't working. Because of that, his ability to play the guitar became the only thing he had left of his family. When two of the strings on his guitar snapped three days ago, I could have sworn he was going to cry. Mister Franklin didn't need Liam to answer his question because he saw the answer in his eyes. We all did. _

_As for me, I can safely say that my most vivid memories of them were when they alternated every night to read to us. It didn't matter how tired they were or how late our dad returned home from his work in Cardiff. I used to wait for him on his nights, refusing my mum's offer to take his place, because I was eager to continue the next chapter of our current story of the week. _

_In Mister Franklin's library, he had collected a first edition of Peter and Wendy by Sir James Matthew Barrie. He never mentioned where he acquired such a piece of brilliance despite my attempts to ask. I suspect it has been in the family since it was published in 1911, and its well worn spine certainly gives that impression. Over the past three days I have almost finished it twice. As strange as it may sound, I do find myself enthralled with the story with every page read. _

_Mister Franklin must have seen my fascination for the book. I expected him to find a more recent copy, perhaps one that was printed a few decades ago rather than the priceless piece of history I clung to. But when I opened my one and only Christmas gift, I was speechlessly surprised to find the very historic copy offered to me. I should have declined it, explaining that I couldn't possibly take something that belonged to his collection, but he wouldn't hear it. _

"_I'm afraid I don't have much longer in this life. Life has been kind enough for me to redeem myself after the mess I made of my marriage and my children, through the three of you, and I want all of you to remember this day. I want all of you to remember me and this manor and the fact that there are good people in this world. I know the previous homes you have been placed in have been difficult and cruel, and I can't even begin to fully understand what they were like. But I have realized over my lifetime that the stories we create give us hope to continue. This story was always a favorite of my wife and children regardless of how old they became. I can see it in your eyes when you read this. It isn't just a childhood fantasy to find a safe home like Neverland, but a sense of hope for all of you. You'd be the hero amongst your family if you could keep that innocence."_

_After that night, in spite of what we have seen, I sincerely believed there is good in the world. It's just a dying breed. '_

Beth always knew Mick was much wiser than he portrayed outwardly. It kept him alive during everything life had thrown at him. But as she slid the photo back in place and snapped the journal shut, tying the leather back in place, she realized that his time with old literature and good hearted people had done wonders to shape his view of reality.

* * *

'_Thirteenth of April, 1996._

_Birthdays have become a thing of the past over the years. It's pointless to become upset by that fact. When I was young, my parents did everything they could to make the day into something special. I was never really fond of the parties. There were far too many people to keep an eye on. In actuality, I appreciated the moments spent on the beach together and the quality time we shared far more than anything else. _

_To celebrate my thirteenth in a bloody basement is undeniably depressing. _

_I fear that my pencil is becoming uselessly dull as I proceed, and there isn't much left to whittle away with the metal piping I found, so I will have no choice but to make this quick. Need to find a way out of this hell anyway, before Jenna starves to death and Liam bleeds any more from that ghastly head wound. _

_In precaution to my untimely death at the hands of Sires, I told my literature teacher of my most recent foster father just a week ago. He promised to call social services to get Liam, Jenna, and I removed before Sires lost his temper with us again, but I don't believe he actually did. Mister Vaughn always kept his word and that was one of the reasons why I went to him with proof of the bruises Sires left on Liam and I. Unfortunately he either didn't believe me because Sires is well respected in our school, or social services hasn't acted yet. _

_Whichever the truth may have been, it didn't change matters for us. The facts remain painfully clear. We are starving to death in the basement of Sires tiny single floor home, scared beyond belief, and willing to do anything just to get the hell away from this place. _

_You must excuse the shaky handwriting and change of vocabulary structure. Sires threw a chunk of bread and a bottle of water down the stairs the day before yesterday morning, as if that would hold us until he decided just what to do, but it wasn't enough. Jenna was younger and smaller, and the general rule between the three of us is to protect the youngest. She was forced to eat the bread and drink all of the water herself, spacing them apart over the past two days, while I could only sit back and watch. _

_I didn't want to mention it to her before, but I feel as though I am becoming ill. My stomach feels as if it's eating itself from the inside out, it's difficult to formulate calculated thought save for what I write on paper, and I honestly want nothing more than to curl in a corner and sleep forever. The nearly empty box of small lantern candles I found in a corner with a thinning package of used matches do little against the darkness. I'm down to the last match, and I only pray that it will light when I strike it. That is, if I can keep my hands steady enough to strike it. _

_Officially, this is the worst birthday gift in history._

_For my thirteenth birthday, I didn't receive much in terms of gifts. I didn't expect a birthday cake either. However, to make the day slightly less depressing, Liam and Jenna purchased a new journal and satchel. The sandy colored satchel is quite nice, possibly the nicest possession I own at the moment, and it honestly looks a bit like the one my father used to carry to work every day. Odd, I know. The journal is fancy too, with its metal buckle and shiny brick red leather, and I'm saving it for something special. Not this depressing adventure, but something better. _

_Liam plays on the school football team and he has access to most of the equipment. Jenna was at the kitchen table with her homework, Sires wasn't due home from his meeting at school for an hour, and Liam and I were incredibly bored in the lounge. Homework didn't take more than half an hour for both of us, and I wasn't about to leave Jenna alone or help her cheat on her homework. I did plan to sneak out with Liam and Jenna later that evening, spend a few hours on the Thames river bank with my catapult and the ducks and birds. Jenna says that's cruel and inhumane. Personally, I say it's target practice. _

_But Liam had taken a football from practice earlier that afternoon and decided to kick it back and forth against the open brick wall in the lounge to occupy his time. I was reading another science fiction novel from the school library, bent on making a detailed report for a bit of extra credit, and wasn't actually paying attention to him. _

_He thought, somehow, that it was funny to kick the ball in my face. I missed it by throwing myself sideways on the sofa and cursed at him. Harsh words ensued, although I honestly didn't think he was a mindless twit. Spouting in the heat of the moment, of course. We kicked the ball between us a few times with every insult until I kicked it out of sight and into the hall behind him where it crashed into the wall. _

_Jenna heard the commotion and ventured out of the kitchen to see what the hell was happening. She found the ball in the hall and lined it up to hit Liam in the back of the head, just to get his attention over his booming voice. Unfortunately she had never been skilled with coordination required in sports. Ironic, isn't it? You would think it's genetic considering I've never missed a shot with my catapult. She couldn't throw a ball to save her life though, much less kick one in a straight line. _

_Liam sidestepped at the wrong moment. The ball bounced off the sofa, the coffee table, and straight into the classic tube telly. One in a million shot, and she somehow managed to send Sires' prized television off its stand and onto the floor with a booming crash that had me cursing in fear. Pieces of glass scattered about the floor beneath the shattered telly, the plug yanked from the wall outlet with an audible pop and spark, and I knew in an instant just how screwed we really were when I felt my heart drop in my stomach. _

_Jenna began to apologize profusely, wide fearful eyes begging us to find a way to fix it before Sires returned home. But as I crouched beside it for examination, I knew there was no way to fix it without new parts even if I had knowledge of how. Perhaps I was too harsh with her when I shouted in panic that Sires was going to kill us for what she just did. She looked on the verge of tears and had I not been so afraid of Sires' reaction, I would have apologized for shouting._

_Liam started to gather the pieces after a few tense moments. He cleared the coffee table and stacked them on top. Then ordered Jenna to go to the basement and find a box big enough to hide it until we could find a way to fix it. Once she was heard opening the basement door, he asked me to gather the glass carefully and pile it on the table in a single stack. _

_We were in the middle of placing the last pieces of glass in the box when Sires staggered through the front door. The moment he rounded into the room from the small entrance hall, clothes disheveled with the rigid posture and reeking of scotch like he had gone to the pub down the street for an hour after his meeting at school was finished, we froze and stared at him. He's a tall and lanky dark haired man in his early forties, not much muscle to speak of but that didn't necessarily matter when he drank himself into a stupor and smacked Liam and I around if we got in his way. He's got a sick fascination for the girls in the theatre classes, a nasty temper that admittedly scares me, and no reluctance to hold his tongue with some of the older students at the school. Why he still had a job after cursing Liam during class a few days ago, I honestly don't know. _

_He took three seconds to look between the empty stand his television once sat on and the box Liam still had his hands on. As soon as realization sank in, he threw his satchel to the floor and closed the distance in a few long strides. _

_The details of how we were thrown in the basement are a bit foggy. I recall defending Jenna when Sires barked who was responsible. Sires backhanded me across the face hard enough to send me to the floor with stars dancing in my eyes and blood on the tip of my tongue. Liam did what came natural, which was to protect both of us. He convinced Sires that he broke the telly, that he was fooling with his football in the house like he wasn't supposed to do and accidentally kicked it too hard. Apologies didn't work, because the next thing I know, Sires had a vice grip on the back of his hair and began slamming his head into the brick wall. He kept shouting how insufferable and unappreciative we were, how we were the stupid little brats that caused all his troubles in life, and I feared he was actually going to kill Liam if someone didn't distract him. _

_Lunging at the man with a large piece of glass in hand wasn't a brilliant idea. I recall doing so, thinking that it would only take him a second to throw me to the floor again, but I didn't necessarily care. The next clear memory is of Sires throwing us down the stairs of the basement. Jenna was ordered to go first, as if he showed some sick minded courtesy towards her, before he threw Liam and I after her. Liam had been dragged by the back of his jacket collar just as I was like we were weightless. Before my head connected with a wooden step and everything faded for a short while, I caught a brief glimpse of the wide gushing wound bloodying Liam's lax face. There was too much blood…_

_It wasn't until yesterday that I realized how deep the glass I wielded at Sires had cut into my left hand. Thankfully I'm right handed. However, the wound in my palm did stop bleeding profusely after I tied my sock around it. It will most likely leave an ugly scar if not stitched properly soon. Unfortunately all we had in the basement were a few candles, matches, sealed boxes containing useless junk Sires pack-ratted after his wife left him last year, and some emergency blankets that appeared to be at least a decade old. I didn't know what else to do, so I shredded one with the pocket knife Liam forced me to carry in my pocket shortly after we met and made a kind of pressure bandage. I've read enough to know the basics of such, and I hoped it was good enough to keep him from bleeding any more until I figure a way out of this mess. _

_In theory, I could use something to knock the hinges out of place on the door. But it is a very thick and heavy wood, and even if I had the strength to do so, I doubt I or Jenna could drag Liam up the stairs and out of the house without Sires realizing what I was doing. I don't know what time it is, the only way to know the date being the sound of Sires exiting the home with a slam of the front door every morning just as he always did, and I don't know if anyone at school will realize our absence before we starve to death. I'm sure the other teachers and Jenna's friends, and even Liam's teammates, will find it odd that all three of us haven't shown up for class. But given our record of tardiness and our status of known runaways, it isn't too unfeasible to believe that they thought we had just disappeared again. _

_We are on our own this time. Liam is slowly bleeding to death despite my best efforts to help. Jenna won't stop crying in a corner with her arms wrapped around her legs. The only thing I can do is try to find a way out before we die in this hole. _

_Before I try to chip the doorknob off with the piece of pipe I found again, I just need to say that this has been the most frightening experience since my last days in Wales. If we die here, and someone miraculously finds this, I only have one wish. Jenna and I are to be buried with our parents in Penarth.'_

* * *

Beth read the passage five times within the length of an hour. The words were drastically different than those Mick had written years before. There was less innocence, less sophistication that contradicted his age, and far less childish hope. He wasn't the same boy that dreamed of pirates and Neverland, the same brilliant boy who was undeniably wiser than his years. Perhaps it was the teenage hormones with his age, or the fact that he had been starving to death and terrified when he wrote the entry.

The raw fear in every shakily scrawled word had Beth clutching the edges of the journal until her fingers ached. Despite the predicament Mick had been in when he wrote the entry, he was able to portray enough anger and frustration and horror to make Beth _despise _Sires as much as he did. She couldn't help but imagine the children in that basement, starving and bleeding and inhumanely treated like stray animals, and she grimaced violently at the thought.

"How the hell could someone do something like that?" She questioned aloud, surprised to find her own tone slightly unsteady as she looked at Nikola behind her. The kitten blinked at her innocently, pausing with his tongue partially out of his mouth as he had just been cleaning his paws. Beth settled with a heavy sigh that weighted in her chest and voiced aloud again, "You're lucky that you're a cat. People can be absolutely disgusting at times."

She didn't know what else to say about the matter, really. There were serial killers in the world who had done far worse than lock three children in a basement to starve to death because they had broken his television. Those who butchered and destroyed others were considered much more dangerous in her eyes. But after reading Mick's thoughts of the bastard, seeing just how horrified he truly was of dying in a basement with his siblings, she began to think that Sires was the king of serial killers.

If it were possible, she wanted nothing more than to find the bastard and shoot him herself.

She felt as though she were reading chapters in a novel rather than a journal. The story of his life had been incredibly fascinating and captivating so far. She hadn't read more than two journals, seeing as she didn't think she had time to read every single one and decided to pull a random book from the box rather than search for a specific one, and the three years she had read sounded like the work of fiction. However, she knew that Mick wasn't the type to exaggerate on anything. Exaggerations always annoyed him to the point of frustration.

Beth had come to the understanding some time ago that he was a genius who refused to show it among those he didn't trust. He could have done anything with his life if he put his mind to the cause. Yet, with the structure of words she had been reading, she began to think he would have been better financially if he were to write a novel of some kind. Of course, when did any of them actually have the time to do such a thing?

Curiosity and eagerness drove her to flip through the next several pages of the journal. Three pages were spaced between the next entry. Crude pencil drawings filled the paper from one corner to the next, faded with age and smudged tastefully. The first was easily recognized as the backdrop of a city from the perspective of standing behind a window. A shaded moon was crested overtop a building, stars nothing more than dots of white in the darkly shaded sky, and the attention to detail of the buildings was remarkable. In the distance, she could see a tall building standing proud among the rest that was recognized as the clock tower known as Big Ben.

The second and third were less detailed. A scene of an ocean lapping on a shell and fossil littered beach in the middle of an afternoon, the distant figures of boats on the water, a vast pier in the distance, and a single exaggerated sandcastle were lovingly simplistic. Mick had mentioned during dinner together at Cooper's loft a few days before, only when Gina gave him that pleading look he couldn't seem to refuse, that he spent the first eight years of his life on the edge of the ocean in Wales. It was a peaceful existence that he so obviously missed. The drawing must have been from a dream, a piece of memory he had to illustrate so he wouldn't forget it.

Another sketch of the Thames River from the perspective of someone sitting on the river bank was probably a memory too. The concrete bridge nearby was drawn empty, the evening sun creeping beyond the horizon in the distance of city life, ducks and birds occupied the sky and river peacefully, and beside the perspective, a boy recognized as Liam was caught in mid-stroke of his guitar pick against the strings of a old acoustic guitar perched in his lap. Beth stared at the image for a long few seconds, feeling a smile tug at her lips, and wiped a hand across her face to push the past feelings of anger away.

"You know, I bet he could play a guitar if he wanted to. If he grew up with Liam playing that thing all the time, than it's safe to assume that he picked up on the basics fairly quickly." Beth mused aloud with a brief glance at Nikola again. The kitten made no indication that he heard her as he continued to clean himself with his tongue, and Beth mentally scolded herself for expecting a reply from a cat.

She turned to the next entry in the journal and climbed further onto the bed, slipping her shoes off and crossing her legs into a more comfortable position.

* * *

'_Twenty seventh of April, 1996._

_I'm afraid I don't have long to write today. Matters concerning a new social worker assigned to us have risen and I have somewhere to be this fine spring afternoon. Knowing my luck, I won't be able to write tonight due to the fact that Liam is being discharged from the hospital and will probably want to spend the night with his guitar in hand for the first time in two weeks. I find it difficult to write while he's playing because the music captures my attention too thoroughly. _

_I haven't written anything in several days because I haven't had the desire to do so. There are few drawings I have been scribbling to keep myself occupied, as well as school work sent by Mister Vaughn per my request and a two thousand page medical book I found at the nurses station that is strangely fascinating. With two thirds of the book finished already, I have come to associate the book with the old early twentieth century printed dictionary I use for reports at the school library. _

_In regards to my last entry, I should clarify the obvious and unexplained. After I managed to get the basement door open in the early morning hours of the third day, before the sun could rise and the moon could disappear, I escaped the home through the backdoor and fled to a neighboring house. Leaving Jenna and Liam was the hardest decision I have ever made. But I needed to find help or we simply were not going to live through the rest of the day. Once I realized that the neighbor wasn't home and my fist against their door was a fruitless effort, I broke a window with a garden stone and climbed inside. I must have snagged myself on a piece of glass from the window whilst climbing inside, because I recall a sharp tug in my jacket and shirt that became wet within a few minutes of moving. Ten minutes were spent searching for the telephone in a dazed panic. Thoughts were becoming muddled and I barely had any energy to understand the emergency numbers written on a shred of paper beside the phone in the lounge. _

_The operator over the phone asked what my emergency was once I dialed, and it took a few moments to tell her where I was and beg for the police to help us. She kept urging me to continue talking with her while she contacted the police. Unfortunately I seemed to have lost what little adrenaline I had left at that point, and promptly dropped the phone to the floor as I sank into the sofa and drifted to sleep. _

_I awoke two days later in a claustrophobic hospital room. The bed was uncomfortable, the equipment was too loud, I didn't appreciate the needle in my arm or the bandages taped around my hand and stomach, yet I was too tired to escape the confines of it all. Jenna was curled in another bed beside my own, resting soundly with her prized doll Mister Franklin had given her tucked in her arms, and I considered waking her. I had no idea where Liam was, which naturally ensued panic, and it wasn't until a nurse intervened with promise to see him in the morning that I could finally settle. _

_The children's ward has been our most recent home for the past two weeks. It's safer than living in another child's home or with a different foster parent, I'll agree. The social worker, Misses Aylmer, has only stopped by a handful of times over the past two weeks. There was a copious amount of paperwork to be filed before we were given a new social worker and she obviously wasn't pleased about it. _

_Another man, an inspector working with the local police by the name of Edwin Draper, talked with us daily. He spoke of all sorts of stories to keep us entertained and earn our trust. Even when Liam awoke a week after we were rescued from Sires' home and threatened to hurt Draper if he touched us, he just smiled a reassuring expression on clean shaven features and kept his position as someone that cared. He looked to be in his mid-forties, but age hadn't been cruel to him like it had been to Sires. A few times, although I would be reckless to admit it aloud, he reminded me of my father. His eyes looked familiar though I couldn't place them and his dark brunette hair was trimmed short in the same manner as my father used to keep his. _

_I did conjure enough courage to question him cautiously three afternoons ago. We had been eating lunch together in Liam's room across the hall from the room Jenna and I slept in. Given our previous starved and injured state, meals had been monitored closely by the doctors. I would have loved fish and chips from that small vendor on the Thames, Harland's, rather than the nutritional shite they forced on us. Regardless of my disdain for the food, I voiced my question hesitantly and watched the older man respond. _

"_Now that you mention it, I knew a Marc Rawson years ago." He answered with a slight smile as if the memory was humorous. "He worked in Cardiff for the longest time, since before you were born I believe, and I was working for Scotland Yard at the time. We crossed paths once during an investigation, worked together for about three years before I resigned because the case was officially taken out of our hands. He was used as a consultant for that investigation. After we were taken off the case, he invited me to his pub in Penarth for a drink before I was reassigned to London. I met your mother and you then. You were only about three, so I doubt you would remember me." _

_He paused for several moments to watch me. While I did want him to continue, I found myself staring at the floor with an empty feeling twisting in my chest. He must have seen how distraught I became at the mention of my parents, seeing as he dragged a hand over his face tiredly and exhaled exaggeratedly. "When I was working with your father, the only thing he ever talked about outside of work was you and your mother. He adored both of you, all of you." He gave a reassuring nod to Jenna, who looked as though she was going to start crying again. "He saved my life once during the investigation, took a bullet intended for me, and seeing you two and how much your look like your parents, I think I owe it to him and Katherine to keep you two safe. So you can mark this day in your journal if you like. I vow to find you a better home away from Sires and anyone else that could harm you."_

_Somehow, and I have no reason for it, I think I believe him. _

_Draper's solution to our problems was a man by the name of Billy Fitzgerald. _

_The previous social workers assigned to place us in different homes scattered across London have never been trustworthy. Their motives were tainted with greed money and a decent reputation imposed. Finding a safe home was never a true concern for them because they simply didn't care what happened to us. Because of their lack of sincerity towards those they were supposed to defend, we had no plausible reason to trust them. _

_Hence why we always ran away from the homes they placed us in within the length of three weeks. I have found the streets themselves to be much safer company than those who wish to harm us again. _

_After the last incident with Sires two weeks prior, we were given a new social worker that contradicted everything we believed to be true about social workers. _

_Billy Fitzgerald is a peculiar Irish/American man. I estimate him to be in his early forties, given his slightly pudgy statue and balding brunette hair that highlighted the roughness of his features. He looks a bit intimidating, to be honest, and I personally would rather not cross him because he seems to have little tolerance for shite. I'm almost certain he wouldn't harm us physically, but I can't bring myself to trust him. Admittedly, I think he's better than the others who have claimed to care for us and Draper was adamant that the man could be trusted. He has been blunt with us so far and I somehow appreciate the brutal honesty. But trust doesn't come cheap and he has given us no reason to trust him yet. _

_When we were introduced to him early this morning, roughly just before nine, we were understandably nervous. No one said anything for several minutes. We were too busy just observing the older man seated in a chair in front of us. Liam and Jenna were perched on the edge of the hospital bed while I leaned against the end with my arms folded. Our positions would have been switched had Liam not still gotten woozy whenever he stood for an extended amount of time. The doctor assured us that it would pass within a few weeks. It was an unfortunate side effect of having his skull cracked. _

_Fitzgerald opened the file in his lap as he began to explain the situation. "Sires can't hurt ya again. If the courts find him guilty of his crimes against you three, he'll go away for a very long time. You'll be contacted by someone else from the courts in a few days to set up your testimonies against him. I'll have to help with that on your behalf, of course." _

"_We're not testifying against him." Liam interrupted, and it became transparent by his fearful tone as to what he was thinking. If we testified against Sires, that could paint a target on our backs. He was scary enough when we were living with him. No one wanted to see what he was capable of if we truly enraged him by trying to get him thrown into prison. _

"_You'll be protected." Fitzgerald countered sincerely, sighing heavily. "Sires has been fired from his job at the school, he's being investigated for crimes against children, and he's constantly being watched. If it makes ya feel any better, this entire floor has been on heightened security since your arrival. No one gets in or out without authorization from the front desk. There's no possible way he can hurt anyone with all the extra security."_

_Regardless of everything he had promised, we still couldn't testify against Sires. It was too dangerous, and I honestly didn't think any of us could stand in front of a room of people and describe what that monster did to us in detail. There was proof in the scars, both visible and those seen on the results of the tests the doctors gave us, and that should have been enough to lock him away forever. However, without testimony from the actual victims and witnesses, there was little the courts could actually do. _

"_I understand that you're afraid." Fitzgerald stated in a quieter tone than before, leaning forward to prop his elbows on his knees. "No one will push ya to testify if ya don't want to. But just know that without your testimony, Sires could very well get away with his actions with nothing more than a year or two in prison once the trial process is over. It's not a permanent solution, and there's nothing to stop him from making a plea deal of some kind to get the charges dropped completely. The entire process could take years to settle without a testimony."_

_Personally, I don't care what happens to Sires so long as we never see his face again. That didn't mean we were going to testify against him. I understand what the repercussions for not telling the courts what he had done to us are. It could be years before Sires was brought to justice, and there was no assurance of even obtaining justice in the end. _

_Understandably so, for the sake of Jenna and Liam and myself, I am too afraid of what Sires could do to us if we told the world. Therefore this story will only be told with my last breath, and only to someone didn't look at us with pity and sympathy as everyone else, but with understanding and strength of spirit that the world around us seem to be lacking.'_


	16. Broken In Our Own Little Ways 2

Intermission

Broken In Our Own Little Ways

Summary- Beth Griffith always knew there was more to Mick Rawson than met the eye. The proof is in his journals.

Rated high teen for themes. I have tried to keep anything potentially triggering or disturbing at a minimum as far as descriptions. The only parings, even in the slightest, are Mick and Gina. Although, towards the end, it could be interpreted as Mick and Beth. This plays directly into my main story line so you may want to read that if you haven't already. There are spoilers for it. No one beta reads my work, so please don't verbally kill me for a typo. Any grammar and spelling mistakes are my own. Unfortunately I do not own anything involving Criminal Minds Suspect Behavior. I am simply borrowing them for my own entertainment.

Now, to the story!

* * *

Part 2

'_Thirtieth of July, 1997._

_Six years ago Jenna and I were given to the foster system of London. Granny Sofia was deemed unfit to care for us just after two months, distant family in Wales refused to take us, and rather than send us back to Wales where we could grow up in Cardiff or Swansea or even somewhere farther north, they deemed it easier to keep us in London. Over the course of six years we have passed thirty eight homes. Eleven were kind and generous people, and I honestly felt remorse and hesitance when the time came to leave for the streets again. Twenty seven established why Liam never stayed in one place for more than three weeks at a time. The streets are safer company, and the familiarity of such is difficult to ignore. _

_We have been running for so long. It isn't a simple routine anymore, but a way of life for us. We learned how to survive on these streets without the assistance from adults. We spent six years protecting each other from adults and ourselves, our own band of misfits that strangely reminds me of the Lost Boys, and it has become a second nature of sorts. _

_The longest time we spent in a single home was with Mister Franklin in 1993. It was a day before the three week mark when he passed from a heart attack in his sleep. Liam found him in the morning, New Years Eve, and packed our belongings before he called the police. We were gone before they arrived and managed to stay on the streets for three days before we were caught. In his honour, we buried one of his prized books taken before our departure on the bank of the Thames and said a few kind words in a small service. Liam is far more religious than I am but the Bible quote he memorized from his parents years ago was spoken beautifully. It was depressing because I was quite fond of him. I thought we had finally found someplace safe, perhaps he could convince Liam to stay, and we could spend the rest of our lives in that manor. _

_We were too attached to him, believed that he was too perfect of a father, and that was why his death hurt so much. After that, we vowed to keep ourselves as distant as possible. _

_It is difficult to do so when someone shows us unadulterated kindness. _

_The past year has been different in comparison to the previous. We were still placed in different homes by our new social worker, Billy Fitzgerald. We never stayed for more than two or three weeks at a time. Most nights were spent in parks or on the Thames banks, listening to Liam play his guitar whilst counting the faint constellations overhead. City life had ruined the vision of stars with its bright lights in the dead and night, and I'm not pleased with it. School carried as usual with the exception of Sires and a few questioning glares from schoolmates. We didn't cease pick pocketing from those who deserved it, or disobeying curfew for the hell of it. _

_However, the foster parents we were placed with were actually kind and generous people. Couples mostly, without children of their own, who agreed to care for us after Billy read our history to them. It felt like charity and reeked of sympathy, and I don't appreciate either. Billy seems to always know where to find us, because during the times we have ran away for several hours, he finds us easily. When it nears the three week mark and we pack our bags for the streets again, he's there with a choice. We could either go with him to another family he had picked, or stay on the streets until we changed our minds. Sometimes we chose the streets for a few weeks because they felt safe. During those times, he always brought us food three times a day and supplied clothing and blankets and pillows. When we grew tired of the homeless surroundings, he brought us to his flat to shower before we were to meet our most recent foster parents. _

_Some would undoubtedly mistake that into the context of something perverted, but rest assured it never is. _

_Billy hadn't made the decision of accepting the O'Connell family as a viable option until Jenna asked him a few weeks ago. The O'Connell's have a daughter roughly Jenna's age, within two months, named Cassandra. Although, she preferred Cassie instead. She is in the same classes as Jenna and they've become good friends over the past year. I've seen her a few times on the weekends when Jenna has invited her to the banks with us to do their homework in peace. Admittedly, she seems like a nice girl. She and Jenna get along well, and she doesn't ask questions as to the few visible scars Liam and I have. I've always found that when people see the scar above Liam's right eye or the long jagged line in my left palm, they want to know details. Cassie is one of the very few I've ever encountered that didn't question us. She kept her distance, but somehow managed to be there to talk to on the banks when needed. _

_It was surreal to see Jenna form a relationship with Cassie in the same context as the relationship between Liam and me. The beginning may have been different for both of us, but I felt as though I was watching a different version of myself. Jenna began to consider Cassie as a sister, much in the same fashion as how I consider Liam my brother. They are most certainly not related by blood, but that didn't matter. Jenna confided in Cassie, just as I confided in Liam. She wasn't a foster child like we are. However, she had enough sense of adventure and independence about her to coincide with us. _

_Ultimately, the choice to adopt us was in the hands of her parents and Billy. Cassie had told us that she had been trying to convince her parents to adopt us for the past month. While she badgered her parents, Liam and I convinced Billy. Both parties caved last week and Billy began the paperwork. Our first meeting with the family was at one this past afternoon. _

_We met at a public place as a show of courtesy for both parties. The Harland's fish and chip shop on the edge of the Thames is widely popular in south west London. The owner, Harland Batts, has sympathy for the local runaways and homeless. Meals were given to the homeless children for free and he volunteered at the local homeless shelter once a week. The shop itself has no official seating. There are old rustic metal chairs and long rectangular tables set outside in a large area that overlooks the Thames, and more often than not they're already occupied in the afternoon before we can find a seat. I've never complained about the seating arrangements because we usually find a quiet spot under a nearby bridge to enjoy the meal. _

_Billy reserved two tables for us, pushing them together with the appropriate number of chairs and away from prying eyes, and bought lunch for us as well as the O'Connell's. _

_I thought it was odd how Liam and Mister O'Connell had the same first name. Then again, I knew at least half a dozen people from school with the name of William or Michael. Both are very common names, and I honestly did appreciate the shortened pretence that my mother gave me because it genuinely made people look twice. _

_We haven't arrived to first name basis yet. William and Lillian are still Mister and Misses O'Connell. Mister O'Connell is a dirty blonde haired man with a strict posture about him. He is broad in the shoulders and slightly thick in the arms of his brown jacket, and his uncertainty about adopting three new children, two of which are teenagers, was evident on his stiff features. Misses O'Connell looked eager to see us. Cassie obviously inherited her long brunette hair and the kindness in her eyes. She shook our hands warmly, offering a smile that spoke to a motherly soul, and took charge of the meeting with a grace that left Billy two steps behind. _

"_Cassie has told us quite a bit about you three." She stated as her husband rose from his seat to order their foot from the shop nearby. "Billy told us that you would be willing to stay in one place for more than a few weeks if you found somewhere safe. Given what Cassie has told us and what we've read from your files, I think that's perfectly understandable."_

_Jenna nibbled on a slab of battered fish and kept her eyes fixated on her basket of food, clearly nervous about answering. Liam was in a similar position, as was I, in which we both refused to touch our food until we were confident the O'Connell's were not going to try anything distasteful. _

_He was running out of time for a proper adoption, and that undoubtedly weighed on his conscious. It is common for those who reach the age of 'aging out' to be left defenceless and alone. There are shelters for them and programs the government set in motion. But we've both seen other teenagers reach that age and get kicked out of their foster home. It frightened both of us. _

_The O'Connell's were our last hope, and while we didn't say anything, they seemed to already know what we were thinking. _

"_You're only fifteen years old, dear. You've still got plenty of time left." Misses O'Connell tried to reassure Liam, but he obviously didn't believe her as he narrowed his eyes distrustfully. "Cassie tells us that you've got a talent with your guitar. William and I own a small business selling instruments not far from here. You're more than welcome to stop by and take a look around."_

_When we didn't reply, Billy glanced at us curiously. "They're normally never this quiet. Something wrong, lads?" _

_I shook my head attentively for a moment, breaking the silence between us unsteadily. "No. I just don't have anything to say." _

"_Well that's a first. Ya don't have to tell them your entire life story. They're just making pleasant conversation. It's rude to ignore them."_

_Liam exhaled loudly in response and forced an apologetic expression. "Sincerest apologies, Mister and Misses O'Connell. We're just new to the prospect of adults actually having a soul." _

_That was the basic premise behind the meeting. The O'Connell's did their best to portray trust to us. Liam refused to accept it completely and even I was a bit doubtful for the majority of the meeting. But Jenna trusted Cassie and Cassie trusted her parents. The more they talked about their life together and Cassie piped in with humorous childhood stories, the more I began to believe they truly are honest people. _

_In my opinion, honesty means the world towards a good soul.'_

* * *

When Beth met William and Lillian O'Connell in January of 2011, they were grieving the death of their daughter. She had seen the way William distanced himself from Mick and Jenna, how Jenna cried on Lillian's shoulder during service, and how Mick couldn't bring himself to look at anyone in the eyes. Their actions were expected given the fact that Cassie had been murdered and they were grieving. William barely spoke to Mick or Jenna, and Beth could read the blame on his worn features easily. Lillian hid her anguish in the presence of others better than her husband, which was admirable given the situation.

At the time, the FBI couldn't ship Cassie's body back to London for burial and they had come to the arrangement to bury her in the United States instead. A plaque was given to the O'Connell's to be placed in a cemetery of their choosing in London, Fickler's deepest sincerity on behalf of the FBI as well, and no one paid a dime in regards to the funeral expenses. The entire experience was traumatizing. Cassie was murdered by a serial killer who lured her to the States, Mick was shot and kidnapped with Jenna by the same unsub, and both siblings could have very well died at the hands of that bastard had Mick not found a way to escape.

The entire family, Mick and Jenna included, looked defeated and weathered. They had endured so much as a family unit over the years. But with Cassie dead, their relationship with Mick and Jenna had been strained beyond repair. Judging by what Beth had just read, their relationship rewound to the same untrusting position it had taken when they first met.

Flipping through the latest journal in hand, Beth gnawed on her lower lip in thought. The journal itself was different in comparison to the others. There were far more entries written in Welsh than English, and Beth reconsidered her options about using a translator from the internet to decipher them. Unfortunately online translators were not always accurate or trustworthy. She was almost afraid to read what was written on those pages because they were disguised for a reason. More than likely, given the few small dark sketches between entries, they were his most personal thoughts. She had already invaded his privacy enough. There was no need to push what little access she already had.

However, several of the entries were written in the form of poems or lyrics to a song, but she couldn't understand the words. Multiple pages were even scripted into sheet music with small short handed notes to the edges. Other pages were lined with what she could only assume was schematics for some kind of invention that came to mind. They were crudely drawn and without more detail, and she doubted they would have been worth anything to someone who wished to use them. Scrawled numbers and formulas occupied several other pages, as if he had been working a piece of schoolwork in his spare time, and Beth found it intriguing. She knew he had a talent for numbers, but the formulas were too lengthy and complicated for a standard person his age.

Needless to say, the little details of the journal were fascinating.

The alternating perspectives between his seemingly random thoughts and the actual entries were interesting. It showed brilliance and control in an otherwise damaged mind, and Beth couldn't help but compare the journals to the most fascinating series of stories she had ever read.

She read how he spent six years on the streets of London with Liam and Jenna, and only eleven of the thirty eight homes were kind to them. He preferred the streets themselves over another home because they were familiar and he knew how to survive with them, and Liam had always been the one to protect both of the Rawson children in whichever way he possible could. They had been terrified of Sires after their last encounter with him and that fear restricted them from testifying against the man in a court of law. Life began to better itself when Billy Fitzgerald was assigned to them. Beth assumed he was Mick's current contact in the foster system in London, although he never mentioned the man before, and he probably trusted the man because he cared for them.

After a few more pages, Beth found the next legible entry in English and dismissed her silent musings. She sighed heavily, glancing at a sleeping Nikola on one of the pillows, fell back onto the bed. Her legs were dropped to the floor over the edge of the mattress and the mound of blankets beneath her head provided enough support to see the journal in hand easily. She readjusted her grip, held the book within level of her eyes, and began reading once more.

* * *

'_First of September, 1997._

_If someone were to ask me a year ago what my view of foster parents is, my response would have been less than pleasant. I had just cause for my outlook towards them. Some would say I'm ungrateful or misinformed or don't 'understand', but I beg to differ. There's no excuse for neglect or abuse when one promises to care for you. Perhaps I'm being biased given my past history. Yet, I truly believe a vast majority of those who claim to care for a foster child only do so for the money or reputation. Either way, it's inexcusable to lie to those who have been through the ringer such as we have been. _

_With that in mind, you can possibly understand our hesitance towards the O'Connell family. Sires seemed like a nice man for two days before he drank himself into a stupor and used his belt against my back when I accidentally broke a glass in the kitchen. Misses Blythe was a baker who kept locks on the refrigerator and cupboards of her home - we had to ask for food when we were hungry and it was always margined in small portions because she had a ridiculous fear that we were going to become obese - and she had a tendency to drag Liam or I by the back of the hair if we were caught picking the locks. The first time Liam or I muttered a curse word at Misses Fay three years ago; she bound our hands behind our backs with belts and used a bar of soap to wash our tongues. Unfortunately the consequences of such couldn't be dismissed by the social worker or teachers when Liam and I became violently ill for a week afterwards. My point being that the foster parents look perfect on paper and within the first two or three days to fool the world, but when aggravated, they can become monsters. _

_Naturally that has warranted our reluctance to trust the O'Connell's as of yet. They seem like good hearted people. They love Cassie with every ounce of their soul, though they didn't necessarily spoil her rotten like we've seen on others before, and their attentiveness towards detail is quite refreshing. They haven't spoken a single lie as far as we can tell, and that is unusual in itself. _

_They did own a small shop next to their home several miles from the Thames. One could walk the ninety minute journey to the river or take the bus if desired. Liam has found a liking for it and I will admit that it has a welcoming atmosphere about it. Their home is a small two story building with enough space to fit six comfortably. It's located in a quiet section of Barnes that we have never been to before, much like a suburban neighbourhood but not quite as crowded or artificial, and it does seem like a cosy place to live happily. School is forty minutes in one direction in walking distance, but Mister O'Connell volunteered to give us money for the bus every day when needed. _

_The official documentation came through late last night. Billy found us in the group home we had been staying for the past few days just before noon the next day with the news and a small boxed chocolate iced cake with three bottles of root beer to celebrate. At two in the afternoon he helped us gather our belongings and packed them in his awaiting car. We listened to the radio throughout the ride to the O'Connell's, and I couldn't help but laugh when Billy broke into a rather bad rendition of a song by 'The Beatles' that I honestly didn't know the name of. I've heard Liam play it before, but haven't thought to ask him about it. _

_Mister O'Connell and Cassie met us in the drive as soon as Billy pulled his car to a halt. He offered to gather our belongings from the trunk with Billy while Cassie led the way inside. Liam, of course, refused to allow anyone else to touch his guitar case. No one bothered to argue with him about it, and I certainly didn't intend to sound like a hypocrite by opening my mouth with some brutally immature jab as I normally would have done. As it were, I couldn't bring myself to let Billy or Mister O'Connell touch my satchel wrapped around my shoulder and neck either. _

_Misses O'Connell was tidying the last bit of furniture in the upstairs bedrooms. Cassie called for her once she stepped foot on the stairs leading up and we were urged to follow her to our new rooms within the length of a breath. _

"_We've been readying the rooms for the last few weeks now." Misses O'Connell stated as she opened the first door on the left. "This is to be shared between you two boys. I apologize that we can't give each of you a single room to yourselves. But I think you'll find that there's more than enough room for everyone. Cassie has volunteered to split her room in half for Jenna and I think she'll be more than happy to share the collection of dolls and books she's gotten over the years." She gave a quick smile to Jenna before showing Liam and I our room. _

_The walls had been painted to a deep sea blue with a light tan border roughly a week ago; the smell and gloss gave insight to the age. Hardwood flooring is almost invisible beneath the plush sandy colour rug. Curtains before two windows are one shade lighter than the walls, draped closed in front of a small double drawer desk with matching cushioned chair slid beneath. A single wall-to-ceiling bookshelf was just as empty as the long closet, save for a row of metal hangers, and the two chest dressers. On both sides of the desk against the walls, two linen beds offer a comfortable sleeping arrangement. We were given the choice as to which one we wanted. Both looked welcoming - any bed that wasn't made from broken mattresses and impossibly thin sheets looked comfortable, really - with two different shades of blue and gray sheets, several plush pillows, and a thick patchwork quilt folded neatly on the ends. _

_Once Liam and I placed our belongings on the appropriate beds, Cassie led Jenna to her room. I followed more out of habit than anything else and leaned against the doorframe as Jenna studied the room with wide amazed eyes. _

_It looked far more lived in than the room given to Liam and me. The classic violet paint was duller with age, the tall white bookshelf partially cleared to make room amongst the dozens of dolls and trinkets, and the gray rug overtop hardwood held the impressions of the dollhouse perched on a large low white round table near the curtained windows. A new bed frame carried vibrant violet bed linens similar to Cassie's, a second mirror top dresser stationed next to the first with a small jewellery box on top and a new package of hairbrushes and colourful clips and bands, and the open closet looked just as big as that in our room but held a large majority of Cassie's clothing shoved to one side and separated with a plastic divider. I've seen quite a few girls' rooms over the years, but nothing quite as fancy as this. There were toys for Jenna to play with, like any other ten year old girl should have, and a friend to play dolls with. _

_If this home doesn't work, I'm sure Jenna is going to be heartbroken. _

_The next hour was spent memorizing the layout of the home. We didn't unpack, despite the O'Connell's reassurances that it was safe to do so. However, we did peek into every room out of pure curiosity and neither of the O'Connell's seemed bothered by it. Liam spent a few minutes ensuring there was no permanent lock on the window in our room. There wasn't a fire escape to lead down, just a narrow gap between the two buildings where the trash bins were stored until the city came to empty them once a week, so it was ruled as useless in case of emergency. _

_The lounge held three tall bookcases lined with books and picture frames. A fireplace looked well used in the winters and the frames on the mantle spoke of a happy family. The telly was old and relatively small, but worked well enough. In the kitchen, Misses O'Connell prepared a pot of tea while Mister O'Connell prepped a pan of chicken breasts to be slow cooked for dinner. They worked well together in the kitchen, never once stepping on toes or getting into each other's way, and I haven't seen that level of tandem since my parents worked together in our family pub before they passed away. _

_Half an hour before dinner, I ventured into the kitchen to ask for a glass of water. The smell of cooking veggies, stuffing, cheese macaroni, and handmade dinner rolls was enticing, and I was reminded of just how hungry I actually was when my stomach growled. _

"_You don't have to ask for food or drink." Mister O'Connell stated as he placed a glass of frigid ice water on the island table between us. "If you get hungry or thirsty at three in the morning, you're more than welcome to cook whatever you want as long as you don't catch something on fire."_

_I stared at him longer than what was appropriate. In past experiences, taking food from a kitchen without permission usually ended very badly if I were caught. The scars left by Sires and half a dozen others proved that it was better to wait for the right moment to get the food rather than ask or steal it when they were home. _

_Mister O'Connell seemed to know my thoughts, which was a bit unsettling, as he gave a pointed nod at my left hand. "Billy told us about Sires. He said we should be cautious in case he tries anything again. I know Sires gave you that scar and the one your brother has on his head, as well as half a dozen others between both of you. You may be weary of trusting us immediately and that's okay. It's perfectly understandable. Just know that we're nothing like that bastard. So long as you want to live here, you'll have a bed to sleep in every night, food and drink whenever you want and a home with people who will never lay a finger on you or your siblings in any derogatory fashion." _

_Had the situation been any different, and had Jenna not been so confident that the O'Connell's were good people, I wouldn't have believed him. Trust takes time, as Liam so blatantly said, and that is the truest statement I have ever heard.'_

* * *

"Beth! Nikola!"

Unbeknownst to Beth, the hours of availability to continue with the journals drew to a close abruptly.

The unmistakable clink of keys against the front door locks echoed through the apartment to bring Beth's attention away from the journal in hand. She hadn't known how much time passed since she began reading. Hours, most definitely, yet she hadn't bothered to keep track of the time specifically. Mick and Gina were due to return soon, and Beth mentally scolded herself for not realizing how _soon _that actually was. She heard Gina's voice muffled by the walls around her, calling in a mixture of worry and eagerness, followed the audible close of the door a few moments later.

Beth cursed to herself beneath her breath as she rolled off the bed and scrambled to her feet. The journal nearly fell out of her hand as she braced herself on the edge of the bed for a split second, but she slipped it shut and latched the long leather strap around the middle once more. She dropped it into the box with a grimace, finally noticing how out of order the journals were compared to when she found them. There was no time to make it seem as though she hadn't touched them.

Mick was heard talking with Prophet about something she couldn't care about in the living area, while Gina's footsteps grew closer to the bedroom. Nikola startled awake at the familiar voices, perking his head up from the pillow to look towards the open door expectantly, and Beth was tempted to shoo him from the room to distract Gina for a few seconds longer.

Instead of giving the idea any more room to grow, she gathered the mangled box in her arms and slid it back into the closet. She barely had enough time to stack the others atop and partially close the door to conceal them before Gina appeared in the doorway.

Her brow furrowed as she looked between Beth and the closet door. The worry on her features was still present, but drastically lessened than what Beth had seen when she left her apartment earlier. Her hair was no longer tied in a loose bun, and Beth assumed the band and the diamond necklace kept her anxious fingers busy while she waited in the chiropractor's office. Beth assumed the fact that Mick was allowed to return to the apartment and sounded better than when he left hours ago took a large burden off the younger woman's shoulders.

Still, Beth needed a perfect excuse for being in Mick's room and preferably within the next ten seconds. She glanced at Nikola as he jumped off the bed and stretched, then began to wrap himself around Gina's sock clad feet until she scooped him into her arms affectionately. The first excuse that came to mind was absolutely ridiculous, but Gina didn't seem to have the energy to question her farther than a raised eyebrow in disbelief. "He stole my keys and I just found them in the closet. You know how he likes shiny things."

Gina sighed heavily and stifled a tired yawn, dismissing the claim for the time being. "Prophet can give you a ride home after dinner if you want. He bought take-out for all of us, and Mick want to introduce you to _Doctor Who_."

"That's nice, the offer, I mean. But I really should go. There's a lot of paperwork that still needs done and Fickler's still breathing down our necks about it." Beth interrupted with a forced apologetic expression. "Another time." She paused in mid-step towards the door as she heard Mick laugh at something Prophet said, just then remembering why she was in the apartment to begin with. "He sounds a lot better. I take it the prognosis is good?"

Gina placed Nikola on the floor and nudged him out of the room with her heel gently, watching him bound down the hall and towards Mick and Prophet with a faint squeak. She smiled honestly, leaning against the door as she drew her eyes to the bed and shook her head. "Apparently the entire event was one quarter psychosomatic in response to another night terror where he dreamed that he was paralyzed from the waist down, and three quarters physical injury regarding the damage to his back. He'll be a couch potato for the next two weeks, and Flores is going to breath down his neck to talk about the night terror. But he should be fine as long as he takes care of himself. They gave him a small dosage of a muscle relaxant and a prescription for something else that will help in the future, so he's a bit too relaxed right now. Prophet seems to think it's funny and the two of them have been making off colored jokes for the past half an hour."

Beth grinned in relief and exited the room, pausing in the hall for a moment longer to peer into the living room. Prophet was heard in the kitchen, rummaging through the refrigerator with a loud comment about the lack of soda. Mick was seen perched on the sofa, boots gone as his feet were propped on the coffee table, pillows placed behind him as he used the television remote to flip through the day time channels. Nikola crawled up the back of the couch and balanced on the edge above the Welshman's head, kneading his hair with claws as if to say hello. Mick snaked his hand beneath the kitten's stomach, never once turning in his seat, and brought him to his lap with a twist of his wrist.

After reading several boyhood misadventures involving Mick and Liam, Beth couldn't help but look at her teammate differently. His actions were sensible given his history. Likes and dislikes, fears of abandonment and destitution, hatred of those who dared to lay a finger on a child, she began to understand why everything meant so much him. What was done to him and his teammates in Iraq all those years ago was a breaking point. During the hell he went through in his childhood, Liam the only person he had to look towards for advice and safety. The fact that Liam was essentially dead was probably more excruciating than anything Beth could ever imagine.

With everything she read, she came to the realization that there was more to Mick's personality than he ever shown to the world. Two years ago, she assumed he was emotionally stunted. Now, hearing him throw playful one-liners to Prophet who countered in a manner that mimicked siblings, she knew that assessment was wrong. Prophet couldn't _replace _Liam, but there was a sense of childish brotherhood between the two that Beth honestly found intriguing because it imitated the relationship between Mick and Liam. That wasn't the signs of someone emotionally stunted, but of a youthful mind trying to compensate for what was already stripped away.

She excused herself from the apartment at that point because it was necessary. Because she began to formulate a different profile of Mick, one that insisted on youthful brilliance and childishness, and she couldn't risk allowing that to slip through her lips. She saw Mick differently, knew he would be furious at her for invading his privacy, and had no desire to stay for the impending rant. If there was one single portrayal in those weathered pages, it was the fact that Mick kept everything close to his chest. It was only a matter of peeling the pages away to see past the illusion he was hiding behind.

* * *

Beth had an unpleasant tendency to dwell on a subject until the appropriate answers presented themselves. When she was young, her parents and teachers excused it as a perceptive gift. Her older brother, on the other hand, constantly mocked her for it. He claimed that it was ridiculous, and she was simply _making it up _to gather attention. She didn't necessarily hate him, although at the time she probably would have disagreed with herself, because they were young and immature and said a lot of things they honestly didn't mean. The problem with his accusation was that it wasn't true. When something caught her attention and there was no immediate answer, she inadvertently dwelled upon it in hopes to find a viable answer. It dulled into a minor nuisance as she grew older. She found a way to push the thoughts aside and focus, and the answers to her curiosities normally followed shortly behind.

Unfortunately, whilst working with Sam Cooper's Red Cell FBI team, ignoring the nuisance had become a troubling challenge again. Particularly when the curiosity involved one of her teammates.

Beth couldn't find a way to shove the thoughts of Mick's journals aside. She tried watching television once she returned to her apartment, read another dozen or so pages of a mystery novel she had been reading for the past week, worked on case paperwork for an hour fruitlessly, and attempted to focus on a game of online scrabble with a player somewhere in Japan. Nothing carted her thoughts away from those yellowed journal pages.

She laid in bed for an hour, staring at the ceiling as her imagination soared with the remnants of the entries she had read like a short movie reeling in her head, and came to the realization that there was only one option. There was a question that needed answered and preferably quickly.

The question revolved around Sires. Shortly after Beth first met Mick, when he was lying injured from a nasty fall and electrocution in a basement in Arizona, she tricked him into admitting something personal as a way to keep him talking to her until help arrived. He admitted to never attending a university despite the scholarships to Oxford and Cambridge he was given. The reason being that he built a working and virtually untraceable sniper rifle to shoot a previous foster father. He called the man a rapist, but was adamant about the fact that he nor his siblings were ever the victims. Beth had the horrible inkling suspicion that the man he shot was actually Sires.

From what she gathered by his journals, Sires was a sadist and a pervert. He held little respect for young boys but quite a bit of respect for girls. There was no mention of physical abuse towards Jenna, only Mick and Liam, yet Sires starved her with her brothers. He was perverted towards the other girls at the school he worked at but probably didn't dare act on his thoughts for fear of losing his job. Alcohol was a constant for him, and judging by the innuendos, and Beth assumed he was always drunk in some form when he took his anger out on Mick and Liam. Because of his past actions, it was easy to assume that Mick had enough of the bastard and tried to kill him.

The only proof Beth could find of that assessment was a newspaper article printed on August fifth in the year 2000. Apparently numerous newspaper agencies across England and Wales had been slowly transitioning their old hard copies onto the internet for the last few years. Beth spent an hour combing the internet in hopes to find it, although she was confident that she wouldn't, and was pleasantly surprised to find the short article. The contexts were vague, seeing as it was an open investigation at the time, but Beth had dealt with enough reporters over the years to know how to read between the lines of what they printed for the public.

'_Teenager shoots previous foster father with handmade sniper rifle._

_Fifth of August, 2000 - An investigation is underway after a seventeen year old Barnes resident attempted to kill a previous foster father late Friday morning. _

_Details have yet to be released by authorities in regards to the shooter. The unofficial report states that the shooter built a sniper rifle, took a perch atop an abandoned home, and shot the victim from a distance of four hundred and twenty seven yards. Police have not clarified what that reason is as of yet. They have requested that the identity of the shooter remain confidential for the sake of his safety and his family until the official reports have been filed. _

_The victim is Clinton Sires, forty seven year old resident of Chiswick, who was spending a quiet morning visiting his sister and nephews in Barnes Green. _

_One witness, who wishes to remain nameless, states that he was less than fifty feet from Clinton Sires when the shot was taken. 'There wasn't an audible pop like you see in movies or read in books. One second the man was kicking a football to his seven year old nephew, the next he was on the ground with a seeping hole in the centre of his shoulder blades. No one really knew what to do at that point or even consider that it could have been a sniper. We were all just stunned speechless. When the police showed up and said that it was a sniper, I honestly thought that could have been me. I've never felt that kind of fear before and I pray I'll never feel it again.'_

_Four other witnesses, including Clinton Sires' sister and nephews had the same reaction. _

_In 1996 Clinton Sires was arrested and tried for three counts of child abuse, child neglect, and child imprisonment. Without testimonies from the three victims the case was dismissed. Clinton Sires has not been allowed to return to his previous job as a teacher since his arrest. Authorities have yet to clarify if one of the victims is behind the shooting. However, sources confirm that the shooter was in the previous care of Clinton Sires before his arrest. _

_It is unclear if Clinton Sires will survive the surgery to remove the bullet. His family has already been contacted but authorities have ordered all crucial details to be withheld until late tomorrow night. A televised press conference will be held at that time with more information.'_

Beth attempted to find more information, the next several articles pertaining to the story or even the press conference, but the newspapers either hadn't been uploaded yet or were subdued by order of a judge.

She pondered the article for several minutes, reading it over and over again in hopes to find new meaning beneath every word. Mick's name wasn't directly linked to the article, but Sires was. That couldn't have been a coincidence. The article may not have told her directly that Mick attempted to kill Sires all those years ago. However, the chances of a coincidence were nonexistent.

The small wireless printer on her desk ejected the article with a push of a button from her laptop computer. Beth gather it quickly, folding it in half to slide in her purse as she slid her boots back over her feet and strung her jacket over her shoulders, and flipped the lights off in the living room as she left the apartment.

There was no way Beth could sleep that night while her curiosity was still raging. The only thing she could think to do was go to the source. She just hoped Mick wouldn't verbally kill her too severely when she confessed that she inadvertently dug into his personal life.

* * *

Beth only knocked on Gina's apartment door once. It was a light tap, using her knuckles against the wood in a single fluent motion, and Beth didn't honestly expect an answer.

Doubt and hesitance began to consume her as she climbed the stairs towards the apartment shared between Mick and Gina. She found her steps slower than intended, procrastinating to count every step and every door she passed as if they were important in some way. It was undeniable procrastination for fear of what would happen next, and she understood that. Therefore, when she finally reached the apartment door, she brought her knuckles to the surface and retracted them several times without actually knocking. Nervousness twisted in her stomach, excuses formed one after the other and certainly more ridiculous than the previous. Her fingers wrapped around the strap of her purse over her shoulder absentmindedly and she teetered on the heels of her boots, one foot ready to spin and run should the need arise.

After a heavy breath and a moment of mental self-esteem building, she gave the door a single blunt knock and waited impatiently.

Ten seconds became fifteen. Fifteen became thirty. At the second of a minute, she spun on her heels and stepped towards the exit in relieving defeat.

Unfortunately, Mick opened the door not a moment later.

"Beth? What are you doing here? It's well past midnight." He questioned with a harsh whisper to his Welsh tone. It was loud enough to hear through the cadence between them, but not enough to wake anyone else in the building. Beth turned to him sheepishly, eyes scaling over the knee long tattered black shorts and thin long sleeved tan night shirt, nearly smiling in amusement at the messy state of his short dark hair, and forced a shrug. He braced himself on the doorframe, posture slightly rigid and eyes heavy with sleep, and Beth knew he must have been trying to sleep when she woke him.

"I'll just come back in the morning. Sorry for waking you." She tried to excuse herself again, but the younger man grasped her shoulder lightly to stop her.

"That's bollocks and you know it. What's got you in such a fit that you've decided to come all the way here?" He whispered tiredly, the native tongue drawn to the surface without his realization. "And I wasn't asleep. Gina and Nikola retired about two hours ago and I've been tryin' to sleep for the past forty five minutes."

Beth gnawed her bottom lip for a long few seconds, finally folding her arms over her chest as she answered truthfully, "I was kind of hoping you were asleep."

Mick raised an eyebrow and forced a smirk. "Well, that's one way to check. Ya wanna go shake Nikola or Gina and see if they're asleep too?" He was being sarcastic, Beth knew, but the brutal honesty and humor was refreshing.

"No thanks, I'll just take your word for it this time." She paused to glance in the dark apartment, seeing the glow of the television highlight the front of the coffee table and couch pointedly. "How you can sleep after watching something like _Doctor Who _doesn't make sense. It's like falling asleep to thrash metal, isn't it?"

Mick offered a shrug to show his indifference to the opinion, although the faint roll of his eyes suggested he didn't agree, and leaned his shoulder against the door frame tiredly. It wasn't until Beth remembered that he did have a tendency to fall asleep to heavy metal music on his MP3 during the plane rides home from cases that she realized how insulting the comment had been. Needless to say, she didn't plan those words carefully enough. "Agree to disagree, eh? So, why are you really here? I suspect it isn't just to make small talk because you can't sleep either."

Beth fumbled with the latch of her purse as she answered hesitantly, "Can we talk? I mean, somewhere less populated where no one else is going to hear us." Mick tilted his head to the side, one eyebrow raised significantly as a shocked and confused expression filled his features. Well, that wasn't what she intended. Damn him for taking everything out of context when it came to women. "You _really _need to get your mind out of the gutter. I didn't mean anything like _that_. Heaven knows you're not even my type and you're too young anyways."

"Right, 'cause twenty eight, almost twenty nine, is ancient compared to thirty six. You were never good with math in school, were you?" He retorted with a smirk and faint chuckle.

Beth rolled her eyes, trying to mask the grin of amusement with a look of annoyance, and replied, "Has anyone ever told you how much of a smartass you are? I was just hoping to talk about something that you may find personal and probably don't want the rest of the world to know about. I was trying to be _nice_."

"Can I get that in writing?"

"You are impossible."

Mick pushed himself away from the doorframe with a nod of agreement, reaching towards the coat rack for his jacket and slipping his boots over his bare feet as he retorted playfully, "Yes, I know. Gina has said the very same thing multiple times. Now, what's this about something personal? You didn't do something strange like go through my luggage bags earlier, did you?"

"Luggage bags? No…"

"But you were eavesdropping on something in my room earlier. I'm almost afraid to know."

Beth waited until he closed the door behind him, hearing the lock catch in place as he retracted the key and slid it into his jacket pocket, before she answered. "I doubt anyone's on the roof at this time of night."

* * *

"So, what daring secret do you think you've found about me this time? Found my stash of peanut butter cups in the refrigerator? Gina keeps badgering me about how unhealthy they are, but I have to admit that I'm quite fond of them. Especially crushed in vanilla ice cream or melted into pieces in scones."

Beth chuckled softly at Mick's admission.

Her assumption about the roof being empty at almost one in the morning was correct. It was chilly as usual for late February, the slightest breeze nipping at her skin sharply, and Beth pulled her jacket tighter around herself in response. DC never slept. The cadence once set between them disappeared as soon as they stepped onto the roof. The building ventilation system was annoyingly loud, the distant blare of the city so familiar that Beth didn't pay it any attention. Arrays of stars above were dimmed drastically with the bright city lights. The moon itself was dull behind the thick clouds, adding just enough illumination to see each other with the assistance of city lights.

Mick climbed onto the high ledge of the building, despite Beth's verbalized worries that he would lose his grip and fall to his death, and dangled his legs off the ledge to stare into the night sky. There was a glint in his eyes that Beth had seen before, but didn't know how to describe at the time, and a familiar relief to his features that made him seem younger. It was familiarity and longing, as if the city life displayed before them innocently reminded him of the busy outlook of Greater London, as if he missed the city that grew to become home.

Beth knew how to describe that expression now. She didn't know how she came to the understanding in just a few hours, but she didn't dare try to question it. Instead she climbed onto the ledge with him, choosing to keep feet on the side of the roof rather than the several story concrete and fire escapes before, and averted her gaze from him as she pulled the printed news article from her purse. She clutched it in her hands for a long moment before breaking the silence between them. "You really are a kid at heart, you know that?"

Mick glanced at her, dark chocolate colored eyes brushing over the paper in her hand as a curious frown tugged at his features. "You're not the first to say that. Can't really argue with you about it either. Please tell me that's not some embarrassing photo Jenna sent?" He gave a curt nod to the paper, silently asking for an explanation.

Beth sighed heavily as she unfolded it, lowering her tone in caution as she answered. "While I was getting lunch for myself and Nikola, he disappeared into your room. I found him in your closet, trying to get a wad of yarn out of one of your jacket pockets. He's the smartest cat I've ever seen, by the way." She began to explain, a smile ghosting her lips at the mention of the kitten. Mick mumbled his agreement before urging her to continue with an expected glare. "There were these boxes just stacked up in the corner of the closet and I recognized most of them as stuff Jenna sent you over the years or the stuff you've had to ship overseas…"

"So you thought it would be okay to snoop in my belongings?" He interrupted with a new sharpness to his tone that made Beth swallow thickly. "Well congratulations, Agent Griffith. You now know that I've got a secret love for science fiction novels, classic literature, rock and metal and acoustic guitar music, Sudoku puzzles, dinosaur fossils, tea, and bitter dark chocolate. As well as a fondness for _Doctor Who_ and half a dozen other television shows I rarely ever find the time to watch, and the entire _Lord of The Rings _and _Star Trek _series. Does that make you feel like you can _relate_? Is that what you were _looking for_?"

She blinked at him blindly for several moments, tongue thick as if paralyzed by the venom in his words. If he was that crass on the very fact that she peeked into his personal belongings, he was going to be furious when he learned that she read a few of his most personal journals. She tried to bide her time, as well as displace his obvious frustration towards her actions, with her next words. "I kind of knew all of that before I peeked into those boxes. Well, everything except the dinosaur fossils and dark chocolate. That's not really a surprise, though, is it? You got giddy like a schoolboy when Gina talked about visiting the Smithsonian this summer a few days ago. And with the way you drink coffee almost black, is it any wonder that you like excessively bitter chocolate?"

"No, but that doesn't negate the fact that you took advantage of my absence to poke around my things." He countered bitterly. His stare was brutal, silently daring Beth to argue further, and Beth could only drop her gaze in shame as he continued. "Found my scrapbook? What about the photos of Liam and Jenna and I when we were growing up? Maybe even the smaller locked boxes of trinkets?"

Beth breathed a sigh to restrain from arguing, gripping the paper in hand until her nails left indents, and squeezed her eyes shut to mentally curse herself. "Despite what you may think, I didn't dig through everything you own. I did find a box beneath the others that looked like it had been thrown out of a plane. It's filled with a lot of old leather journals…"

"Well that's just wonderful." Mick bit through clenched teeth, pushing his hand through his hair in a normal portrayal of anxiety.

"I only read a few entries, and I never once tried to decipher what was written in Welsh." She tried to use that fact as comfort, as a way to bide time, but it wasn't working. Mick mumbled something beneath his breath, which Beth assumed was a curse, and spun where he sat to place his feet back on solid gravel against. He was going to leave before the situation could worsen. It looked as though he was running away from the questions she had on her tongue, like he knew where the conversation was headed and wanted nothing to do with it, and Beth simply couldn't allow that. She needed an answer. For all she knew, it could have done him some good to talk about it too. "You tell Gina anything and everything because you secretly love her. Does she know about Sires?"

Mick stopped abruptly, less than two feet from the edge of the building, and twisted on his heels to stare at her. There was a new shock in his eyes and not only from the mention of Sires. He gaped at her for several expressive seconds before he stammered thickly, "I don't _love _her."

Beth scoffed at him in disbelief, a quaint smile pressed to her lips. "Right, and the world is square. For someone so intelligent, you can be absolutely stupid sometimes."

Her comments caught him off guard. The anger was still present, but masked by shock at her pleasantness. He didn't know how to respond without incriminating himself by admitting what everyone else could see so easily. Beth could read the eagerness to leave in his posture, in the way his foot kept sliding back against the gravel like he was preparing to bolt for the nearest exit, and she took those unprepared moments to her advantage.

"Does she know who Sires is? Does she know that he's the reason for why you're claustrophobic and can't stand blood and gore and can't let anyone you don't know lay a finger on you without trying to rip their arm off?

Mick exhaled loudly at her words, drawing a weary hand over his face to pinch the bridge of his nose. "He's not a problem anymore. There's no need to tell her." He murmured attentively, though his tone sounded uncertain of that belief.

"From what little I read, he was a big problem for just over two weeks."

Mick seemed to regain some sense of control of the conversation as he folded his arms over his chest and narrowed his eyes towards her. "Why the bloody hell do you care? It was over a decade ago. Sires tried to kill us. He got what he deserved in the end. Nothing more and nothing less."

Beth hesitated for a response. In all honesty, she did care for reasons that were unclear. There was more than a need for answers and Beth didn't quite know how to explain it. She wanted to know the story behind why he threw his life away for revenge, that much was undeniable, but she also felt as though the subject had a separate meaning.

He got his revenge against Sires, but had everything he knew and inspired to be shredded with the dreams of attending Oxford and Cambridge Universities. It had never been mentioned aloud, yet Beth could imagine him as some sort of physicist or worldly adventurer with his fascination of numbers and people. Whatever life he planned for was stripped away when he allowed revenge to cloud his judgment.

So what would happen if he got his revenge against Rais?

"Because we're friends, right?" Beth finally answered timidly, studying the ground between them. "Because I've already lost one brother in my lifetime and I'd rather not lose another."

That appeared to break the tension between them within seconds.

Mick's posture loosened minutely, a look of sincerity in his gaze as anger visibly subsided into understanding. He had lost a sibling too, though not by blood and certainly not in the same fashion, and Beth knew he could understand just how haunting such an experience was. Beth was counting on him to concede with the sudden portrayal of sincerity, but knew it was unlikely. She was surprised, however, when he bowed his head slightly and resumed his previous position on the building ledge, dangling his feet and leaning on the palm of his right hand carefully.

She attempted to stop him when he snatched the paper from her hands and began reading it, a tight frown creasing his features for several minutes. Instead she could only twist her fingers together as he spoke in a bare whisper. "Figured they would get to this article eventually. This is the only one the courts wouldn't pull from the public. Everything else was sealed by the courts when I accepted a deal instead of prison time. Well, actually, William and Lillian accepted it on my behalf, but I had to sign the last bit of paperwork to agree."

"What could Sires do that warranted you to try to kill him?" Beth asked, watching his eyes flicker to the palm of his left hand for a moment as he placed the paper on the concrete between them. "I read about the days he locked you and Liam and Jenna in his basement because Jenna accidentally broke his television with the soccer ball you and Liam were playing with. And I read the short entry after all of you were found. There's still a scar in your palm from that glass, isn't there?"

Mick flexed his fingers in the pale city light, the tips of his fingers curling inwards, his pinky finger outstretched with much more difficulty, and Beth was reminded that the hand had been broken severely during his days in Iraq. Luckily he was right handed. The scars littering the back of his hand were faded with age but still pronounced, few long surgical remnants created a slight and almost unnoticeable void in the thin dark hair, short lines trailing from his fingernails to his knuckles; even the nails themselves were cut short to the skin and scarred with white near the cuticles where they had grown back over time. Skin was weathered and callous, pads of his fingers rough, the palm itself scattered with scars between the creases. It was difficult to distinguish which were from his childhood and which were created during his time in war.

"I've got a lot of scars, really. It's hard to count where every last one came from." He stated solemnly. "But that one required five stitches twice. The second time, just before we were released, I was trying to get something off a shelve in the room, don't remember what it was exactly, and my hand slipped at the last second. I sort of grabbed the nearest thing available to stop myself from falling with the wrong hand. Wound up catching my hand on the edge of an IV pole hard enough to rip off the scab and scuffing my elbow against the cabinet."

"That's your version of _boyish misadventures, _isn't it?" Beth responded.

Mick shrugged halfheartedly and nodded. "I was young and invincible once, just like everyone else."

"Yeah, but who else grows up to build a sniper rifle and then use it to exact revenge against a previous foster father?" Beth countered in hopes to draw the information from him more quickly.

He dropped his hand into his lap and craned his neck upwards to stare at the dimmed stars, wincing slightly when the motion pulled on sore muscles and brought a sigh to his lips again. "I had a good reason for doing that." He answered honestly. "I was always the weird little Welsh kid in school. Didn't really have any other friends except for Liam, and the girls I dated only did so because they felt bad for me or were dared. I guess you could say I was a _geek _because I spent more time in the science and chemistry labs or at the theatre and library than anywhere else. Football was Liam's thing and to be honest, I hated a large portion of his teammates because they were mindless drones who thought it was funny to lock the smaller kids, such as myself, into the lockers for hours until someone heard us screaming."

"Liam used to kick their asses for that, right?"

A smile ghosted his lips as he nodded briskly. "The last bloke that locked me inside a locker for six hours, Charles Haywood, received a visit from the head teacher and officers from the Scotland Yard after an anonymous tip that he was creating a bomb to set off in the theatre during the yearly school rendition of _Shakespeare's Hamlet_. No one ever figured out that the pieces for the bomb in his locker and home were planted and so were the threats sent to the head teacher. He had been failing in a few subjects, and Liam and I just took that to an extreme to get him expelled. They never realized that we were the ones who set him up, and I probably shouldn't admit to that…"

Beth choked on a laugh for a moment, shaking her head at his childishness, and pressed, "That was before Sires was shot?"

His expression fell minutely in response. "On my sixteenth birthday, Liam and his girlfriend, Fiona, managed to gather a dozen or so people in the theatre after school hours for a small party. He used the excuse that he was graduating in a few months, and most of the teachers didn't really complain because they were just waiting for the day where both of us would graduate and leave the school in peace." He paused to force a smirk and dropped his gaze level with the outstretching city lights once more. "There was this girl, Isabella Beaumont, who studied acting in the theatre, danced in the local ballet and played classical violin, and loved poetry to a fault. I'll admit that I fancied her a bit. She was beautiful and smart and funny, and I really never thought I would have a chance to even talk to her. She had a boyfriend at the time, Zane Jamison, who was really overbearing about who she could talk to. He was a senior like Liam, whereas Bella and I were in the same advanced literary classes. He played on the football team too and showed up to the party uninvited when he found that his girlfriend didn't tell him where she was going."

"I'm guessing a fight ensued, you got punched in some fashion, and she started talking to you after you defended her." Beth mused aloud.

"Zane thought I was going to steal his girlfriend. Liam kept urging me to go talk to her and I guess he overheard. He gave me a pretty nasty black eye before Liam physically threw him out of the theatre with a warning to never come back, or his body would be found in the Thames. Bella apologized when he was gone and offered to get a bag of ice from the cafeteria. We wound up spending the rest of the evening in the cafeteria, just talking about everything. She broke up with Zane the next day. A week later, she asked if I could meet her at this little fish and chips place called Harland's. We officially started dating a week after that."

"Sounds very…_story bookish._ I mean, it's cute…"

Mick rolled his eyes at her but cocked a genuine smile. "It was the best relationship I've ever been in. Besides with Gina, of course. But I don't really think that can be called a relationship, can it?" A surprised glare was shot in his direction, which caused him to shove her sideways roughly in embarrassment. "Yeah, I know, I stepped in that one. Not a word or you can taste pavement."

"See, that's the Mick Rawson I know. Always with the idle threats of bodily injury."

"_Anyway, _before I was so rudely interrupted by the peanut gallery," He carried the story where he left off with nothing more than a low chuckle. "She was the only person I have ever stayed with for more than a few months. We dated for a year and a half before she broke up with me. I didn't know why for the first week. She had been acting different, and I was fairly certain it wasn't because I had won scholarships to Oxford and Cambridge and our plans to attend the same university together were not going to work unless she got a scholarship for her writing too. One day, in July of 2000, I found her crying in the theatre after everyone else in the school had left. She was a mess and I didn't know what to do. So I just sat with her for a few hours until she pulled herself together. Then she pulled a pregnancy test from her purse and explained that Sires ambushed her while she was on the way home one night shortly before we broke up. He used chloroform to drug her, dragged her into his home, and raped her throughout the entire night."

He stopped abruptly to grimace, muttering a few Welsh curses directed at Sires, which Beth was glad she didn't actually understand them, and shifted his feet back onto the graveled roof. His hands were clenched together as he propped his elbows on his knees. All forms of amusement and chivalry were replaced with a raw hatred similar to that when Rais was involved in conversation. His eyes fixed on the air ventilation unit mounted to the roof several feet away.

"Her mother was always away on business and didn't notice her missing. Her father died when she was young, and she didn't have any siblings. Sires was careful enough to make sure he didn't leave any bruises that could validate a claim of rape without an exam. Bella was too afraid to tell anyone what had happened because Sires promised to kill her and me if she did. So she broke up with me to make sure I didn't find out and tell the police. But when she began to feel morning sickness, she tested positive for pregnancy. I tried to convince her to come with Liam and me to the police. There's an inspector that helped us get away from Sires and I tried to convince her to talk to him. But she just kept refusing, and she begged me not to tell anyone else until she was ready. I shouldn't have listened to her though. "

"A week after she refused, I stopped by her house to walk with her to school, just as we had been doing for the past week. When no one answered, I climbed the back trellis and knocked on her window. The window wasn't latched, so I opened it. She was hanging in her favorite summer dress by her ceiling fan with her bed sheets around her neck like a noose. I managed to cut her down and just sat with her until her mother came home half an hour later. She attached a note to her dress explaining everything that happened. But her mother panicked and chased me out of the house with a kitchen butcher knife. I called the police using a public phone down the street and told them everything."

Silence filled the air between them. Sadness lingered from his words, the story itself twisting in Beth's imagination until she could picture a seventeen year old Mick finding the love of his life hanging by a ceiling fan, and she tried to push it away. The image was enough to make her eyes feel wet, a lump forming in her throat as she looked away to scrub her eyes. She dismissed it as the chilly air around them.

The suicide of the first woman he ever loved seemed like a very impressive motive for attempted murder of the man responsible.

Mick dragged his hands through his hair roughly, pulling at the strands as his eyes glanced towards her solemnly. "I built another rifle within two weeks, tracked Sires and his movements, and took a perch on an abandoned home rooftop over four hundred yards away. The bullet released the concentrated Nitric Acid that ate through his spine and paralyzed him. He can't hurt anyone else again, ever."

"But you lost everything." Beth murmured, finding it difficult to swallow the mass of emotion in her throat as she studied his sorrowful features.

"For a good cause." Mick interjected harshly. "Revenge for what that bastard did to us was worth losing any hopes to attend university and my freedom."

That was what Beth was afraid to hear. She was afraid he would be able to justify revenge to himself because he had done it before. If he thought it was the only option when he was seventeen, and threw his education and life away to obtain it, than what would he do when he finally found the man responsible for the suicide of his brother?

Beth leaned towards him, only a fractured inch, and questioned sincerely, "If you thought killing Sires was the only way to stop him, and you lost everything you had in life because of it, than what happens when you find Rais?"

That was a question he honestly couldn't answer.

* * *

Note- Ta-da! Hello people! I'm back!  
I wanted to try something a bit different with this. It's pretty self explanatory, I think, so I won't bore you with a long note. The few key pieces are such: Sires, Draper, Billy Fitzgerald, and Rais. Sires and Rais may or may not be connected. I honestly haven't decided yet. It's doubtful though. Draper and Billy definitely have a connection to the grand scheme of things. I kind of wanted to get them involved in the story for later use. The story of Isabella Beaumont will get an independent one-shot later. When? I'm not sure yet.  
So, I will go work on the next chapter to One-Eighty By Summer now. You know what to do, right? I look forward to email alerts stating that I've got a new review or someone else is following these stories. A huge thanks to those who have read, reviewed, and subscribed to my work so far. The encouragement is always appreciated.


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